LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Shelf. ..\:\Z^1 

UNITED STATES "F AMERICA. 



ECHOES 



BLARNEY STONE 



OTHER RHYMES 



BY 

W. C. R. < 



&&■> fe* ^ 




CHICAGO 

CHARLES H. KERR & COMPANY 

175 Deaeboen Stbeet 

1889 



.V/4-7 



COPYBIGHT, 1888, 31 

CHAELES H. KERR & COMPANY. 



CONTENTS. 



The Blarney Stone 5 

" Swaat Rachel," Says 1 10 

Pat's Disappointment 22 

Tim O'Grady 26 

The Gintleman That Pats The Rint 38 

The Gintleman That Takes The Rint 41 

Maby Maltte 44 

Railroad Mike 47 

Pat's Views op a Mother-in-Law 51 

Love's Antics 53 

How Can Poet Tune The Lyre ? 56 

A Farewell to Jennie 60 

Picnic Dinner Song 62 

Duke John 64 

LtENE 65 

Death op an Old Bachelor 66 

Four Fair Maids 74 

A Valentine 76 

A Horse is a Horse 78 

Welcome to Spring 80 

Smoker Jim 83 

A Boy's Wishes 88 

A Mother's Care 91 

Junb 93 

Tears and Fears 97 

Day- break 100 

A School-girl's Greeting to Autumn Flowers . 106 

The Snow Storm 112 

Why Should Autumn Bid Adieu ? 114 



THE BLARNEY STONE. 

At Blarney Castle, in the County of Cork, Ireland, is a cele- 
brated stone called the Blarney Stone. It is made famous by 
the tradition among Irish people that whoever kisses the Blar- 
ney Stone loillfrom that moment become gifted with the power 
of winsome flattery and persuasive eloquence. Hence it is the 
reputed shrine of ambitious orators and ardent lovers from 
time immemorial to the present day. 

IT'S quare how some can talk so glib, 
And tell what they are seekin'. 
They have a knack, and cut of gib, 

And illoquence for speakin', 
And they can string so long a chat 

Ye'd wonder how they prate it. 
They take a word of this and that, 

And thin, how well they mate it. 
And gaping crowds they can entrance 

And lead them on to mobbin', 
Or like a fiddle in a dance 

Just kape thim gintly bobbin' ; 
And they can spake the words of pace 

Our doubts and fears dispelling 
Or they can bid our ills inkrease 

Beyond the power of tellin'. 
But what's the grass they graze upon 

That kapes their tongues so thriven ? 
And how is it they saze upon 

Their words woot little striven? 



6 THE BLARNEY STONE. 

The Blarney Stone, the Blarney Stone, 
It has a magic all its own, 
And though some fools may mock and hiss it, 
The wisest men will stoop to kiss it. 

And some there are, O pity, weep! 

Who don't know how to gabble, 
Like rocking babes that cannot creep 

They only mouth and babble. 
And those there are who can't ixpress 

The igeas that elate them, 
It makes them labor to ixcess 

In ordther to rapate them. 
And some there are who luve to plase 

And laugh and chat and flatther, 
But they have got a dumb dasase, 

And don't know what's the matther, 
And oh, the plight of beau or belle, 

Who, thinkin' too intinsely, 
Is captured by a quiet spell 

And silence settles dinsely. 
For how can they enjoy the hour 

And blessin's that betide them, 
When it is not wootin their power 

To chat to one beside them ? 

The Blarney Stone, etc. 



THE BLARNEY STONE. 

Some Irishmen so oft complain, 

Ye'd thiDk it constant croakin', 
But underneath there runs a vein 

That's full of fun and jokin'. 
And when young Cupid, up to thricks, 

Has thought just how to plan it, 
He puts his project into fix, 

Woot Irishmen to man it. 
And ould Columbus niver found, 

Woot all his wide explorin', 
A race, in all the world around, 

So dexterous at adorin\ 
So apt they are to speak woot grace 

Their igeas of affection, 
Their words will find a wilcome place, 

Wootout a close inspection. 
And who can tell the reason why 

Their chat is all so winnin 1 , 
That when an hour passes by, 

Ye'd think them just beginnin' ? 

The Blarney Shne, etc. 

Ould Erin has a fame of late 
For shamrock and shillaly, 

For orators and statesmen great, 
And odther things as raelly. 



8 THE BLARNEY STONE. 

And there it is that life is gay 

Woot plisures most refinin' ; 
A little fracas ivery day, 

Kapes business from daclinin'. 
And when the English ask for rint, 

It's then ye hear a hummin' ; 
Ye know that nothin' can prevint 

The foinest spourt from comin'. 
But Erin's sons as gallants are 

The bravest and the rarest, 
And thin her daughters are be far 

The choicest and the fairest. 
And whin they meet, oh joy komplate ! 

Fwhat wit and songs so jolly — 
Whince came their compliments so nate, 

That kills ould melancholy ? 

The Blarney Stone, etc. 

The Yankees niver have a wake, 

Or ony rare injoyment, 
They think a joke a sad mistake, 

And vory quare imployment. 
Just see the creatures, poor as crows ! 

No ghost was iver thinner — 
Too limited their dandy clothes, 

To hold a healthy dinner. 



THE BLARNEY STONE. 9 

But Irishmen are full of mirth, 

Good health and hearts intrepid. 
The broth of all the bist of earth, 

Too strong to grow insiped. 
And in the field of war or luve, 

No matther where ye mate them, 
Ye' 11 find no cooin' turtle dove — 

Its vory hard to bate them. 
But how is it they have such wit? 

Came it by eddecation, 
Did nature make a gift of it, 

Or was it vaccination? 

The Blarney Stone, the Blarney Stone, 
It has a magic all its own, 
And though some fools may mock and hiss it, 
The wisest men will stoop to kiss it. 



SWAAT RACHEL, SATS I. 

MAN that's in business may some- 
times delay- 
To lay down his work and go home to his teay. 
For often it's neeadful to stop in the store 
And finish the trade that was stharted 

before, 
To count up the cash and lay goods on the 

shilf, 
To fould up his smiles and raturn to 

himsilf, 
To answer some letthers or chat woot a frind, 
Till time is ixpended he did not intind. 
Woot a glance at his watch he behoulds 

his mistake, 
And thin for his hat and his home he will 

brake. 
His steps are so nimble they hasten his 

speed, 
And nothin' will stop him, no nothin', 

indeed. 
The pigs and the childer, fwhativer may 

stray 
In the front of his path should abandon the 

way, 



SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 11 

And chickens and donkeys and all in the 

strate, 
Know business is business and bate aratrate. 
He cuts across corners, down alleys he 

glides, 
He sails like a ship that is swept by the tides ; 
Fwhat signifies finces and hedges that lay 
In the course of a man that is late for his 

teay ? 
His walk may be reckless, but fwhat does he 

care- 
It's home that he's bint and it's time that he's 

thare. 
Now fwhat is the magnet that draws him so 

quick, 
Is it hunger or luve or the fear of a stick ? 
There's impulse in hunger, there's power in 

luve, 
There's sthringth in ould barley to make 

a man rove ; 
But bist of inventions there's nothin' to bate 
The wife of a man when at tea he is late. 

It happened just lately that Timothy Hone 
Dropped into the store fwhen I was alone. 
"Now, Pathrick," says he, "why idle and 
pine; 



12 SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 

Let's be gone to McGaffey's and sample his 

wine. 
We'll neighbor woot Plisure, that's livin' 

so near, 
We'll pay our raspicts and diwide the good 

cheer ; 
We'll joke and we'll gossip and gather 

good news, 
Till we drive away care and demolish the 

blues ; 
We'll excavate spourt and we'll liberate 

And we'll fome on the top of the fun there, 
me boy. 

We'll ordther the bist from the top of the 
shilf— 

So come along, Pathrick, and be there your- 
silf." 

It's little persuadin' that's iver required, 

When somethin's presinted yourself has de- 
sired. 

The words that he spoke were as yeast in 
the dough; ( 

They fermented me will and I says that I'll 

g°» 
So we sailed like the cars on a Satherday 

night, 



SWAAT RACHEL, SATS I. 13 

And soon we attinded the shrine of delight. 
The curtain may fall on the spourt that 

we had, 
For Rachel might hear it and thin she'd be 

mad. 
We joyed and rajoiced till I thought of me 

dear, 
Then me heart gave a bound as though 

struck by a spear, 
For I knew that me supper was lyin' in 

state, 
And me Rachel was raging at that very date. 
So I summoned meself to arise and be 

gone, 
For I knew it was sason that somethin' was 

done. 
The thoughts of me Rachel, they deluged 

me mind; 
They drowned all the spourt I was lavin' be- 
hind. 
Fwhat could I say to her, how should I 

dilate 
To edify Rachel, me own gintle mate? 
I thought and rathought of the thing I 

should say, 
And the reason that kept me so late for me 

tay. 



14 SWAAT RACHEL, SATS I. 

I knew she was tinder and kind to the poor, 
So I rahashed remarks that had soothed her 

before. 
Said I, " Dearest Rachel, it's late that I am, 
But if ye'll be gintle, complasent and calm, 
I'll give ye the rason, its all of it true, 
I was not at supper, swaat Rachel, woot you. 
When down the first street in good sason I 

came, 
I met a poor crature so ragged and lame, 
So racked and so haggard woot marks of 

her woe, 
That the cause of her anguish I axed her to 

know. 
She tould me her wee ones were home 

wootout bread, 
Nine childer still livin' and tin of them dead. 
I think she's a widdee, bekase she tould me, 
Her husband was drownthed in the beautiful 

sea. 
Discoursing still forther she axed me to 

view 
Her goat that was sick ; so f what could I do ? 
I journeyed and walked like a man that's 

humane, 
Tin squares up the street and two miles down 

the lane. 



SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 15 

Arrivin' at last at her neat cabin door, 
I saw woot me sight fwhat she tould me be- 
fore. 
I helped woot me hand and I wept woot 

a sigh, 
And that's fwhat delayed me, swaat Rachel," 

says I. 
But Eachel's eye flashed and she rose like 

a queen. 
"So, Pathrick, it's courtin' the widdes ye's 

been! 
Enough of you, Pathrick, it's this vory 

night 
Pll pack up me things and be out of your 

sight." 
I knew by her talk and the way that she 

frowned, 
I'd bether fall back and surrinder some 

ground. 
So I fished up a smile on me face and I 

spoke : 
" It's funny, swaat Rachel, ye can't take a 

joke; 
Whin jokes are uncommon I thought ye'd 

enjoy, 
This one I made up woot the use of alloy. 
I've seen narry widdee ; ye know they are rare, 



16 SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 

So banish all fears and dismiss your despair. 
When passin' the church they inwited me in, 
And I walked to the seat where we always 

have been. 
But missin' me Rachel I thought not to 

stay 
But a vory short time till I'd go on me way. 
But the pracher prached grandly and axed 

us to give 
Support to poor cratures that hardly can live. 
And said that, whin inded the sermon, 

they'd take 
A colliction from all for just charity's sake. 
Now how could I rise and retrate from me 

pew, 
Forpeaple would say, 'He's a stingy ould 

screw.' 
So I sat and I sat till I thought I would 

die, 
And that's f what delayed me, swaat Rachel," 

says I. 
But the sceptical grin that appeared on 

her face, 
Conwinced me me statement was quite out 

of place. 
" You story," said she, " for I sat in the 

pew, 



SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 17 

And I saw not the sign nor the symbol of 

you; 
Contrive woot more skill or I'll pound yer 

ould pate, 
Till ye give me good rason for fwhy you are 

late." 
"Nov/, Rachel, be patient, this last that I 

said, 
Was sintiment uttered when out of me head. 
Our docther waylaid me and dosed me so 

strong- 
I lay on the counther for two hours long; 
A sick man I am, and hince I reply, 
That's just fwhat delayed me, swaat Rachel," 

says I. 
" Now, Pathrick, it sthrikes me," she gal- 
lantly said, 
" Ye are nearer the truth fwhen ye'r out of 

your head. 
This last of ye'r rasons I cannot despise, 
'T would make any one sick to have in thim 

such lies." 
" Trush, trush, now, me Rachel, I'm sorry 

to see 
Opinions dewiden me darlin' and me. 
Just wait till I've tinclereci me line of 

excuse, 



18 SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 

Before ye cramate me woot cruel abuse. 
There's one of yer neighbors that's 

greatly to blame, 
And if ye demand it, I'll give ye his name. 
Bod luck to Tim Grady, the crooked ould 

stick, 
Of fraud and deciption he's full as a tick. 
The night was quite darruk, and he led 

the way, 
And fwhat do you think, but he steered me 

astray. 
Right east I had started when he says 

it's west; 
And he says I know that this way is the best. 
And he says to follow; but I did reflect 
To think of the course that was clearly 

direct. 
But finally, politeness caused me to 

comply, 
And that's fwhat delayed me, swaat Rachel," 

says I. 
"Now, Pathrick," says she, "ye are talkin' too 

blind, 
I know there's a rason that lingers behind; 
It's drinkin' ye's been, ye scurvy-plagued 

crone, 
I'll fly to me folks, and I'll lave ye alone/' 



SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 19 

"Now, Rachel, still listen, I've tased ye so 

long, 
Me conscience condimns me for treatin' ye 

wrong. 
Its time for the facts, and its facts I avow? 
That make up the rason I'll give to ye now. 
Your birthday soon comin', I thought I 

would get 
A jewel to match the bright eyes of me pet. 
So I stopped in the stores woot intintions to 

buy, 
And that's fwhat delayed me, sweet Rachel," 

says I. 
"Now, Pafchrick," says she, "I think audi feel 
That in fwhat you've just said there is some- 
thin' ginteel. 
For a man to trate kindly the wife that he 

wed, 
Ewinces the fact that himself is well-bred. 
And could I be certain that arnest ye be, 
I'd thruly forgive ye, though late for your 

tea; 
So varied your stories, I can not see how 
To come at the truth that ye nibble at now." 
"Just listen," says I, "If the facts ye 

retain, 
Ye'U see at a glance how well I explain. 



20 SWAAT RACHEL, SAYS I. 

It may be I varied in fwhat I tould you, 
But sure I took nothin' from that which was 

true. 
On one little statement I dare not rely, 
So I multiplied rasous, swaat Kachel," 

says I. 

And thus we continyed to talk and beguile, 
Till the frowns on her face were subdued 

woot a smile, 
And thin our conversin' took vory wide 

range 
Over subjects familiar, and odther ones 

strange. 
And I blessed me good luck and I flatthered 

me fate, 
To think that I won in the racent debate. 
Now if ony one wishes the sacret to know, 
How I quelled the rabillion that round me 

did grow, 
For the good of mankind I shall not rasarve 
The method that helped me the pace to pra- 

sarve. 
In the midst of commotion that round me 

did roar, 
I masthered me timper as niver before ; 
I stood like a pilot all calm at the wheel, 



SWA AT RACHEL, SATS I. 21 

And I said ounly that which was stricthly 

ginteel. 
And for an excuse I did crawl and I crept 
Till I got to a nate one that she would 

accept. 
And all odther rasons I let them go by 
And we settled on that one, me Rachel and I. 



PAT'S DISAPPOINTMENT. 

ME heart's broken, 
Me soul's broken, 
Kase she gave me no token 

O' ginuine luve. 
But to her praise be it spoken ! 
(And sure I'm not jokin') 
Though she gave me no token 

O' ginuine luve, 
Yet the schmiles on her face, 
That did aften take place, 
At times so uncommon, 

And saisons so queer, 
Frish courage imparted 
And made me light-hearted, 
Bright Bridget, swaat Bridget! 

Oh, Bridget, me dear. 

So railly I thought, sir, 

I was not forgot, sir, 

And a meetin' why not, sir, 

Could baith of us have? 
Whin woot luve's lamps well lighted, 
All things could be righted 
And we just united, 

In swaat bonds of luve. 



pat's disappointment. 23 

But how to achave it 
(And sure ye'l belave it) 
A puzzle so hard to explain, 
That I will not vinture it here. 
But hope held me heart up, 
And thin I walked part up 
To Bridget, swaat Bridget! 
Bright Bridget, me dear. 

But words growing aich less, 
I soon became spachless, 
And Cupid could tache less 

Than iver before. 
So I stood there all waiten', 
The same thoughts vibratin', 
Till me heart began batin' 

Me back to the doour. 
Thin I plucked up again, sir, 
And vintured back in, sir, 
My mission once more to unfold, 

Whin no one but Bridget was near. 
Thin I began swately, 
And the words they came nately, 
Bright Bridget, swaat Bridget! 

Oh, Bridget, me dear. 



24 pat's disappointment. 

And ye'er luve, Bridget Hailey, 
Devours me daily- 
No Irish shillalah 

Could pommel me so. 
Like heart throbs that have me, 
Like soul sobs that grieave me, 
Whin fearin' ye'll lave me, 

I draam ye say go. 

But the silence I broke thus, 
Woot the words that I spoke thus, 
No adiquate answer raceaived, 

As I talked in this strain of good cheer 
But I kept up the chat with, 
And I spoke this and that with 
Bright Bridget, swaat Bridget! 

Oh, Bridget, me dear. 

And if I confess them, 
(Sure ye'd niver guess them) 
So hard to ixpress them, 

The manifold igeas that flowed. 
Ye'd think them expinsive, 
So vast and extinsive, 
So high and intinsive, 

The thributes of illoquence glowed. 



pat's disappointment. 25 

Then rest more continted 

Woot fwhat I have hinted, 

Of the halo that huvered around, 

When footfalls of Bridget fell clear. 
But the words I used mainly 
Were those I spoke vainly, 
Bright Bridget, swaat Bridget! 

Oh, Bridget, me dear. 

For me words were not winning 
I could guess by the grinnin', 
Whin from weavin' the linen 

She lifted her eye. 
So the luve that had lasted 
For years was all wasted. 
And whin it had blasted, 

A rint in the sky 
Was the visible token, 
Of all that luve broken, 
And the danger that huvered around 

And ended our courtin' career. 
But still I talk nately, 
And I dream just as swaatly, 
Bright Bridget, swaat Bridget! 

Oh, Bridget, me dear. 



TIM O'GRADY. 

IF ye' 11 listen woot contintinent 
To an Irish ped'ler's songs — 
If ye'll hear wootout resintment 

The tale of all his wrongs — 
I'll sing of Tim O'Grady, 

A man of noble birth — 
Who ranked woot lord or lady, 

And the dignities of earth. 
O' Grady's youth was springlike, 

All flowery, bright and gay, 
And future plans were dreamlike, 

And throuble far away. 
His fun was all for plisure — 

Fwhativer it might bring — 
And if he got full misure, 

His voice tuned up to sing. 

O'Grady for a calling 

Quite early went to sea, 
But storms were so appalling, 

He thought he wouldn't stay. 
So home again at Bogland, 

His father's farm he found, 
To cultivate its f rogland, 

And dig the turf from ground. 



TIM O'GRADY. 27 

But workin' hard's not aisy, 

Nor diggin' woot a spade, 
And though lie wasn't lazy, 

He liked to walk down grade. 
He thought to be a barber then — 

But he cut a fellow's pate 
Amid a wild commotion, when 

He was knocked across the sthreat. 
And nixt he thought to run a hearse — 

But the horses took a spree, 
And broke the chaise and Paddy's purse 

As bad as they could be. 

And thin it was he joined the throops 

To gain a hero's name, 
But when he heard the Afghan whoops 

He ceased to think of fame. 
He made a sudden, short ratrate, 

"Which took him to the rear — 
He thought his safety more complate 

Where none but friends were near. 
The officers upbraided him 

For running from the field, 
And said that it degraded him, 

And that his doom was sealed. 
The officers a judgment held, 

And talked it pro and con, 



28 TIM o'grady. 

And said by law they were compelled 

One course to act upon. 
Poor Tim was thin condimned to go, 

On Friday of that week, 
To lands that mortals cannot know, 

And do not care to seek. 
But Tim was very slow to start 

Wootout his own consint, 
And studied, woot a willin' heart, 

Some process to prevint. 
But he beneath the Lion's paw 

Could find no sure raceipt, 
To dodge the dreadful opening jaw, 

And save his life complete. 

So whin the awful Friday came, 

Woot true Hibernian grace 
And glory in a soldier's name, 

He marched unto the place. 
The soldiers fired straight at Tim, 

And down he groaning fell- 
One shot went through the coat of him, 

And one his hat as well. 
But not a bit of flesh was struck, 

Nor drop of blood was shed — 
Tim snatched that piece of sudden luck 

And palmed himself for dead. 



TIM o'grady. 29 

The soldiers turned and went away, 

Delaying funeral rite, 
Tim took a squint and then did say, 

" I bid ye boys good-night." 
And then, with leap like mountain goat, 

He bounded out of view- 
He left ambition there afloat 

And sought for pastures new. 

And nixt he thought to pass the bar, 

And illoquence enjoy, 
And woot the lawyers squib and spar, 

And give the court employ. 
One day he told the judge he lied, 

And then the judge rajined: 
" Your language does not coenside 

Woot gintlemen refined ; 
O 1 Grady, you must go to jail 

And rest in solitude, 
Unless your friends will bring in bail 

And guarantee it good." 
The officers escorted Pat 

And put him in the quay, 
But he kept thinkin' this and that 

Until the close of day. 
And then he laid upon his bed 

And took a gintle dream — 



30 TIM o'grady. 

He thought he saw the way ahead 
To cross that throubled stream. 

Nixt day he axed to see the court, 
And made a gallant talk — 

He told the Judge he was in spourt 
But now would straighter walk. 

And thin the smile the Judge did make- 
It dazzled all around, 

It glistened like a frosted cake, 
Or taters on the ground. 

He said the prisoner was raleased 
From fine and prison cell — 

O'Grady's joy was more inkreased 
Then ounly words could tell. 

But he had lost his luve for court, 
For Judges and their ways. 

So now he thought he'd find his spourt 
Where brighter prospects plase. 

And then he choose the field or luve 

To thry fwhat he could win, 
And imitate the turtle dove, 

"Woot cooin's from wootin'. 
Now hear the words that he did mix 

To win a bouncin' bride — 
He stirred them in woot little thrick§ 

And other jokes beside, 



TIM O'GRADY. 31 

Saranely hear the words he said, 
And how he talked them o'er — 

I'll vinture that ye niver read 
The likes of them before. 

" O Bridget, I have seen the sun 

Peep over India's mountains, 
And I have watched the bison run 

Where flow the western fountains. 
And I have seen the Polar snow, 

And Iceland woot its wonders — 
Beheld Niagara's constant flow, 

And heard its mighty thunders. 
I've been where tropic fruit grows lush. 

And tropic birds sing gaily, 
Where tropic shells in glory blush 

And tropic flowers bloom daily. 
But Bridget, here's the word of truth, 

I'll speak it now complately — 
Yourself's the daystar of me youth, 

So listen to me nately. 
When you appear the flowers will fade— 

They '11 wither by your splindor, 
The birds will cease their serenade, 

And look on you in wonder. 
The ocean tide will not be fine, 
, Jfor sweep the beach so greatly 



32 TIM o'grady. 

Niagara Falls may then resign 

Its claims for being stately. 
And flowers o£ spring will dimly shine — 

They'll dwindle by comparing 
Their brightest blush woot those of thine — 

The ones that you are wearing. 
And honey bees no sweeats can find 

That will surpass your sweeatness, 
And friends of art will all combine 

To worship your compleateness. 
The vory dogs will niver bark — 

They wouldn't dare to do it, 
The world will play a game of hark 

When you go walkin' through it. 
And men will say an angel came, 

And wonder how to treat you, 
And Bridget, lisp that angel name 

And worship when they meet you." 

"Hush, hush!" was Bridget's quick reply, 

" Now, Tim, be vory aisy, 
It's not the truth but all a lie — 

I think ye must be crazy. 
And if the truth ye iver knew, 

And still know how to prate it, 
I'd think that some might seepin' through 

Your blarney irrigate it," 



TIM o'geady. 33 

"Trush, trush, now,Bridget," then says Tim, 

" I cannot see the rason 
Ye condesind to talk and whim 

In words so out of sason. 
I thought to make a talk as neat 

As ony one could wish it, 
And stold young Cupid's best receipt 

Prescribin' how to dish it. 
I mixed the words and jined them to 

Sweet igeas I invinted, 
And practiced them an avenin' through 

And thought them well presinted. 
And when a friend came callin' late, 

I thought to analyze them, 
By havin' him the words rapate, 

And thin to critacize them. 
But all he said was 'Illigent! 

St. Jarves cannot bate thim ; 
They're good as Cupid iver sent, 

And nothin' can defate thim.' 
His words were like a match to tow, 

Me smouldering hopes ignited; 
I thought me heart was all aglow, 

I was so mutch excited. 
And all the cinders in me heart, 

That former fires had crusted, 
3 



34 TIM o'grady. 

So heated now fell quick apart 
Where long they lay and rusted. 

But now I see the brightest blaze 
Of incense I can offer, 

Is to your radiance but a haze, 
And makes me seem a scoffer. 

But Bridget, I adore your name, 
"Tis nourishment to hunger, 

My comforter when others blame- 
It makes me heart beat younger. 

And when I thirst, as oft I do, 
'Tis sweet as potteen* to me — 

It frishens me to think of you, 
And quickly does renew me. 

And Bridget, ye are more to me. 
Than forty years of glory, 

I'd live woot you on land or sea, 
Or board in pergatory." 

"Trush, trush, now, Tim, ye've said enough," 

Was Bridget's answer quickly, 
" Ye'r talk is puny, wretched stuff — 

'Twould make a dummy sickly. 
Ye'd betther stop and take on coal, 

And see fwhat nades reparin', 



* An Irish name for whiskey. 



TIM O GRADY. 35 

Or blarney wheels may sase to roll, 
Though not a fig I'm carin'." 

" Well, well, now Bridget, by the powers ! 

It's hopeful talk ye'r makin'. 
Your words are fresh as April showers 

When April buds are wakin.' 
Ye say me blarney may prosade, 

Provided it's raplinished. 
And so I think you kind indade 

To listen till I've finished. 
And all your words are sparkling gems, 

More bright than diamonds' glitter; 
They'd sarve a queen for diadems, 

And finely would they fit her. 
And, Bridget, when your schmiles begin 

(They are so bright and warmin'), 
The chicks will lave their roost within, 

Bekase they think it's mornin'. 
And birds will come from sunny lands 

Belavin' spring has found us, 
And Puck will call his fairy bands 

To gambol all around us. 
And Bridget, if ye' 11 chant a lay 

Our sorrows thin will perish, 
Our throubles quickly will decay 

And all our friendship flourish. 



36 tim o'grady. 

For there's more joy in songs ye sing, 
Than all the sparrow's twitting, 

They're swaat as all the signs of spring, 
And aquilly as fitting." 

"Tim, Tim, ye's got a talkin' spell, 

For talk is cheeap and plinty, 
And Bridget knows yourself too well 

To heead one word in twinty. 
Bat, Tim, I know ye're mighty fine, 

And few there are so splinded, 
In you the graces all combine, 

Though somewhat strangely blinded. 
Ye'er blarney ways are aisy seen — 

Ye needent dig to find them, 
And odther thricks that lay between — 

We'll niver stop to mind them. 

But, Tim, I like some ways of thine, 

They hint of great pirfection, 
And may your countenance iver shine, 

Complate in each direction. 
When nature framed you for a man, 

A jewel she invinted, 
Ye'd take the sweepstakes for a plan, 

Though thousands were presinted. 



TIM o'grady. 37 

And whin Jim Tool does come to call, 

Ave course I'll kindly greet him, 
I'll seat him by the garden wall, 

And thin I think I'll treat him — 
But, Tim, me heart will beat for you, 

As warm as summer weather, 
And I will wish and wait for you 

Till we can live together." 

" Is that ye'r voice, me Bridget dear? 

It's music now ye'r making, 
'Tis melody me heart to cheer 

And soothes its throb and quaking. 
And now I will go home to rest, 

Woot fuel for swaat dreamin' — 
I'll sink like sunset in the west, 

Woot glory 'round me gleamin'." 



THE GINTLEMAN THAT PAYS THE 
RINT. 

Over-population and other well-known causes have reduced 
the Irish peasantry to extreme poverty. The food supply is so 
limited that many of them scarcely knoiv ivhat the taste of meat 
is. Some of the more enterprising ivill sometimes buy or beg a 
little pig from a neighboring farmer, but the animal so pro- 
cured is not destined to supply the table of its owner with food. 
It is carefully reared, fattened and sold, and the proceeds used 
io pay rent. But the typical Irishman, mirthful even in adver- 
sity, tries to make light of his privations and playfully calls 
the pig "The gintleman that pays the rini. n 

IT'S here that good peraties grow, 
As choice as ony land can show, 
And goats are aquil to the bist 
That iver climbed the mountain's crist, 
And geease that gabble all around 
Are just as fine as can be found ; 
But there's the bist that nature sint — 
The gintleman that pays the rint. 

Peratie crops are sometimes poor, 
The goats give little milk, 'tis sure, 
And feathered geease have few to spare, 
They have to kape a coat to ware : 
The bees that work wootin the hive, 
Use half their store to kape alive, 
But for his bourd there's little spint — 
The gintleman that pays the rint. 



THE GINTLEMAN THAT PAYS THE RINT. 39 

The sason may be cold and wet, 
Peratie roots may fail to set; 
The landlord may his claims inkrase 
And levy on the ducks and geease. 
The goats may stray and not raturn, 
The turf may smudge and sase to burn; 
But there's the chap that yealds contint — 
The gintleman that pays the rint. 

The landlord kapes a splindid park, 
Woot huntin' dogs that howl and bark, 
And graceful deer that quickly bound 
To where a covert may be found; 
But what are dogs and deer and hare, 
And all the game that's over thare, 
Compared woot one that's neeatly pint — 
The gintleman that pays the rint. 

The landlord, woot a coach and four, 
Drives in a gallop past the doour, 
And whin the paple nod and leer 
He little thinks a rival near; 
A chap that has four trotters too, 
And grunts as much as landlords do, 
And has a maw of same extint — 
The gintleman that pays the rint. 



40 THE GINTLEMAN THAT PAYS THE KIKT. 

As long as fortune wares a smile, 
Good luck Ytdll follow all the while, 
But when reverse's head is reared, 
'Tis found that luck has disappeared; 
And pigs and piggish men must die, 
But we'll not stop to rason why; 
Dasase did come and then he wint — 
The gintleman that pays the rini. 



THE GINTLEMAN THAT TAKES THE 
BINT. 

S NE day the noble landlord came, 
From hunting hare and other game; 
From snaring nature's little pets, 
He came to spread some larger nets. 
He told his steward to persue 
All those whose rent was over-due, 
And not rebate a single cint — 
The gintleman that takes the rint. 

Oh, dark and dreary was the day 
When we had all the rint to pay; 
The wind blew chillie from the sea, 
And we were poor as poor could be. 
Our beast was dead, the crop was spoiled, 
And we had naught for which we toiled. 
But fwhat was that to make ralint 
The gintleman that takes the rint? 

Our cabin roof was poorly thatched, 
And all our clothes were old and patched, 
And little Mollie, wan and thin, 
Betrayed the marks where want had been. 



42 THE GINTLEMAN THAT TAKES THE RINT. 

And we could find no work to do, 

For times were hard the country through. 

But that was to his averiee vint — 

The gintleman that takes the rint. 

The steward came to make demand, 
And take whativer was at hand. 
He took poor little Mollie's chair, 
But dare not touch her golden hair ; 
He took her playthings and my plow, 
And things I don't remimber now. 
But time will come when he'll rapint — 
The gintleman that takes the rint. 

The landlord drove us from the doour, 
And said we should raturn no more ; 
And now as wanderers we roam — 
We have no place to call our home. 
The earth doth yield abundant store, 
But men still grasp as heretofore, 
And one I think is evil bint — 
The gintleman that takes the rint. 

Oh, it is very strange indeed, 
The cruelty of worldly greed! 
It has a power all its own 
To turn the heart of flesh to stone ; 



THE GINTLEMAN THAT TAKES THE RINT. 43 

The poor man's grief, the widow's plea, 
Are only heard with apathy. 
Like Egypt's king, he'll not ralint — 
The gintleman that takes the rint. 

Such snobbish men who strut the earth, 
Claim all the ground is their' s by birth; 
A splinded title to be sure, 
And one as likely to endure 
As mouldering heaps in quick decay, 
Which sink to dust and blow away. 
And one I know whose day is spint — 
The gintleman that thieves the rint. 

The beast that scratches in the stye 
Will be respected by and by, 
As much as he, though in the van, 
Who crushes down his fellow-man. 
E'en now we can begin to see, 
How much alike they two may be- 
The grunting beast so ill contint, 
And gintleman that growls for rint. 



MARY MALUE. 

FAR out in the eounthry where cabbages 
grew, 
Swaat-corn and peraties and beets in a row; 
Where pumpkins soon ripen and cucumbers 

too — 
In that Egypt of plinty lives Mary Malue. 

'Tis distant from church, from concert and 

rink, 
But of all the wide world 'tis the best place 

to think; 
For the cabbage is quiet and pumpkins in 

view, 
Are afraid of molesting swaat Mary Malue. 

The birds that sing sweetest forget their 

wild trill, 
The youngest mosquito finds time to be still ; 
The frogs are at rest, they music eschew, 
And all through respect for swaat Mary 

Malue. 

The bees and the hornets and insects that 

sting, 
Forget their wild warfare and willingly 

bring 



MARY MALUE. 45 

Their tribute of praise, like swaat honey dew, 
To fall on the ears of bright Mary Malue. 

The chickens and turkeys and geese are so 
good, 

That fwhativer they say, it is well under- 
stood, 

Are compliments paid, though long over-due, 

To the meekness and grace of swaat Mary 
Malue. 

The rabbits, the squirrels and the crickets 

held court, 
And resolved to pravint all radiculous spourt ; 
But action was nadeless when good manners 

grew 
Like grass in the path of swaat Mary Malue. 

The orphan mosquito found there a ratreat, 
And poor Katydid took comfort complate; 
And desolate souls, of all color and hue, 
Laved there in the light of swaat Mary 
Malue. 

But plisure days shorten, how soon we shall 

see 
Our joys take their flight like the leaves of 

a tree ; 



46 MARY MALTJE. 

It was thus with the frinds whose sad fate 

we review, 
Who cintered their hopes in swaat Mary 

Malue. 

She wint to the city, sad day for the wrens, 
The frogs and mosquitoes, the ducks and the 

hens; 
But when she departed, woot long loud adieu, 
They croaked a sad chorus for Mary Malue. 



EAILKOAD MIKE. 

RAILEOAD Mike has a janius sublime, 
To get into a mix and out again, 
And if he is downed it's but a short time 
Till he's up on his faat and about again. 

He's sharp as his pick and bright as his spade, 
And no joker iver could flurry him ; 

No matther what gossip got out on a raid, 
He niver let balderdash worry him. 

Whativer the world and some others may say, 
He answers them well if he cares to, 

So quick is his wit there is little delay, 
And he says what he thinks if he dares to. 

Woot frinds and companions he kultivates 

pace, 

And he tries to trate thim all dacently, 

And walk through the world woot a gintle- 

man's face, 

And that's fwhat he did until racently. 

It's whiskey that siperates dearest of frinds, 
And makes thim conduct so conthrarily, 

It makes thim say words that no one intinds, 
And thin the bright world looks so drearily. 



4S RAILROAD MIKE. 

"When passin' down street Mike met an ould 

chum, 

Whose name was just Jimmy MoFinnigen, 

Who thought that no drink was the aquil of 

rum. 

So he axed him would now he turn in again, 

Mick waited a moment and thin he did yeah], 
How could there be mutch hesL 
there? 

All timperance promises soon he rapaled, 
And accepted his frind's invitation there. 

So when they went in the room was all warm, 

And fiddles were playing so cheerily: 
The chat and the drink could do him no harm, 
And avenin would glide away merrily. 

No church was so warm, no place was so gay, 
No odther latch opened so aisily, 

To workmen adrift from the toils of the day. 
Who wanted to chat away lazily. 

Two drinks were enough to supply thim 
woot voice. 

Though they kept in the bounds of savilityj 
But soon they began to mutch loudther rajoice, 

And thought thimsilvs highest gintility. 



RAILROAD MIKE. 49 

"Oh, Mick is the grandest of mortals I know, 
But he neeads a few digs to adorn him," 

Said Jimmy, who hit him a neeat little blow, 
Though he spoke not a word for to warn 
him. 

Now if ony one thinks that Mick is the chap 
To be silent when some one is flailing him, 

All they have to do is to hit him a rap, 
And see fwhat they get for assailing him. 

Mick delt Jim a blow on the pint of his nose, 
That made him quite slow to begin again, 

And when they exchanged a few dozen of 
blows, 
It settled the case of McFinnigen. 

But frindship once broken is hard to renew, 
So we should all traat it most tinderly, 

And nourish the plant woot fwhativer is due, 
Though it thrives for a sason so slinderly. 

Eight sorry was Mick when he thought of 
his frind, 

The racently pounded McFinnigen, 
Who suffered for mischief he did not intind, 

When in the saloon he turned in again. 



50 RAILROAD MIKE. 

But such is the pinalty timper oft pays, 
Their f rindship Mick tried to begin again ; 

He walked down the street upon subsequent 
days, 
But niver again woot McFinnigen. 



PAT'S VIEWS OF A MOTHEE-IN- 
LAW. 

IN sasons when the weather's foul; 
It's in the house I'm stoppin' ; 
It's there that Bridget, dearest soul! 

Does all her work and moppin'. 
And fun it is to sit and see 

The kitchen fire blazin', 
Woot four small childer on your knee, 

The vory mischief raisin' ; 
And odther childer on the floor, 

There's ten, I think, or nearly, 
Besides the ones outside the doour 

Makes fifteen counted fairly. 
Enough there is to make a din, 

And scare the ghosts from comin', 
Enough to cheer the heart wootin, 

Woot whistelin' and drummin'. 
But stranger sound than childer make, 

Or turkeys when they gobble, 
Is when ould women undertake 

To rigulate a squabble. 

Meat wootout gravy, fish wootout slaw, 
Makes a dinner complate woot a mother-in- 
law; 



52 PAT'S VIEWS OF A MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

Bell wootout clapper, cat woe-tout claw, 
But the peace of a house is a mother-in-law. 

Woot Bridget's timper I could dwell, 

Bekase we're oft continded ; 
Fwhat signifies a little spell, 

When all the spite is inded, 
For when I see the signs of wrath, 

And Bridget lookin' lowery, 
I set about to smooth a path 

Woot words so sweet and flowery, 
That smiles come troopin' down her face, 

To hear me chantin' praises, 
And parting frowns let in woot grace 

The sunshine of her gazes. 
And then we lead a dacent life 

When no one tries to bother, 
For we pravint all nadeless strife, 

And honey one another. 
But one there is that has a tongue, 

That makes the windees rattle; 
It has a sound like dinner gong, 

Or cowboys drivin' cattle. 

Though tea may be tasteless, and meats may 

be raw, 
Continted is man woot a mother-in-law; 
Catch fish in a cradle, find pins in the straw, 
But the summit of luck is a mother-in-law. 



LOVE'S ANTICS. 

THEY may talk of the thriumpks invin- 
thers achave, 
And the wonderful things that surround us ; 
Till we pause to consider how much to belave, 

For fear they mislead and confound us. 
They may prate of the antics of gas and of 
steam, 
And the missages lightning delivers ; 
Of cars on the track and of boats on the stream, 

And bridges that span the wide rivers. 

They may brag of machines that run like a 

top, 

As if worked by the magic of witches ; 

That hammer, and scroll, and chisel, and chop, 

Or catch up the inthricate stitches. 
They may tell of the wather a chemist can 
freeze, 
Of the stars that astronimers misure, 
Of docthors destroyin' the germs of disease, 

Of the manifold sources of plisure: — 
But fwhat will compare woot the genius of 
luve, 
When Cupid has set it in motion ? 
Now bold as a lion, now meek as a dove, 
Now deep as the caves of the ocean! 



54 love's antics. 

Sometimes it will talk, at other times pout, 

Ye cannot tell how to receave it; 
And slily sometimes it will nibble about, 

Or run woot the line that ye gave it. 
Sometimes it is cautious, at odther times rash, 

And many more times it is neither ; 
Sometimes it seeks beauty, at other times cash, 

But seldom it settles on either. 
Sometimes ye will find it attindin' the school, 

As one of the seekers of knowledge; 
But love, in all ages, has acted the fool, 

Though it come from the halls of a col- 
lege. 
Sometimes, at the church it is seated, sedate, 

And ye think it rasimbles a deacon; 
But soon it will wink to a rickognized mate, 

And then your whole theory will weaken. 
Sometimes in the cars it is mounted to ride, 

And chats woot a vim entertainin' ; 
Sometimes it will brave over tempest and 
tide, 

Woot niver a word of complainin'. 
Sometimes it will meet you when out for a 
stroll, 

And treat you so warm and so winnin' — 
Ye'll liberate sacrets ye kept in control 

Far back as the very beginnin'. 



love's antics. 55 

Sometimes it is moody and struck woot the 
rust, 
And quickly ye then will perceave it — 
Ye may crack all your jokes, for Je think 
that ye must, 
But blarney's the thing to relave it. 
When out for a ride on the traveled highways, 

It's lucky ye are if ye meet it; 
But kape a sharp watch on the graveled by- 
ways- 
It's likely that there ye may greet it. 
The hunther scarce knows the haunts of the 
game, 
Or fishermen where there is spourtin' ; 
But who in creation is able to name 
A country where nobody's courtin' ? 



HOW CAN POET TUNE THE LYBE ? 

NOVEMBER sky looked darkly down, 
The dreary night was moonless, 
The trees were bare, the fields were brown, 

The minstrel's harp was tuneless. 
How can a poet tune the lyre 

And set the world to weeping, 
When come no thoughts at his desire, 

And all his powers are sleeping? 
How can glad music fill the vale 

When southward birds are flying? 
How can sweet fragrance long prevail 

When all the flowers are dying? 

Cheer up, my friend, and cease to moan, 

Just hear O'Duffey warble 
Melodious notes which, left alone, 

Eradicate all trouble. 
He has a voice that can make up 

More sounds than ony reaper, 
And, put in motion, would wake up 

The vory soundest sleeper; 
And when his tune begins to range, 

Ye'd wonder where it's going; 
It has a course that's just as strange 

As mill ponds overflowing. 



HOW CAN POET TUNE THE LYRE ? 57 

It makes a rapid roaring leap 

Beyond the bounds of trouble ; 
'T would drown a tempest on the deep, 

Where billows roll and bubble. 



So, though the night be dark and cold, 

We still may have enjoyment, 
Woot bits of music manifold, 

To give ourselves employment. 
And cream will rise above the curd, 

Though darkness hide the dery, 
Then deem it not a thing absurd, 

O'Duffey oft was merry. 
Late turning toward the western wild, 

His pilgrim spirit yearning, 
He might have seemed misfortune's child 

To people slow discerning. 
For sorrow surging through his soul 

Had furrowed lines of anguish, 
But niver got beyond control, 

Or laid him up to languish. 

His clothes were of a rustic kind — 

No fit had been perfected, 
And, oh, the fashion none will find — 

At least it's not expected. 



58 HOW CAN POET TUNE THE LYRE? 

And he was blessed with funny freaks, 

And sober ones that matched them ; 
They blended like mosaic streaks, 

So neat had Nature patched them, 
He didn't care for 'possum pie, 

Or hash in all its phases, 
Nor bread made out of bran and rye, 

And all those kind of crazes. 
But, oh, he loved the pipe and flute, 

The drum, the horn and riddles, 
The sackbut, psaltery, harp and lute, 

And stories, songs and riddles. 

And then he loved the merry fife, 

And banjos gently whirring — 
They eased the agonies of life 

His heavy spirit stirring. 
But when he tried to start sweet notes, 

He could not always find one, 
Though, like the boys that chase the 
goats, 

He sometimes caught the hind one. 
He followed notes through thick and 
thin, 

Like hound the game pursuing; 
He scaled the clefs where few have been, 

All bars and bounds eschewing; 



HOW CAN POET TUNE THE LYRE '? 59 

But though old Orpheus kept the lead, 

O'Duffey, next unto him, 
Exhibiting tremendous speed, 

Was praised by all who knew him. 

But how can poet tune the lyre 

And set the world to weeping, 
Since now O'Duffey's left the choir, 

And sordid souls are sleeping? 



A FAREWELL TO JENNIE. 

HOW many changes Nature brings, 
And how she strives to please us ! 
But when the wood with music rings, 

She soon turns 'round to tease us. 
'Tis thus that song-birds come, and leave,- 

They tarry but a season ; 
It's not for us to pine or grieve, 

Or doubt the better reason. 
The little flowers come peeping through, 

A moment here, to bless us; 
They sweetly smile, with small adieu, — 

How gently they impress us ! 
But autumn winds begin to blow, 

The Frost King is descending; 
The little flowers no longer grow, 

Their leaflets are all bending. 
They break beneath the pelting storms, 

They fall, like ripened clover, 
Naught now remains but withered forms, 

And life, for them, is over. 
The morning sun, with radiance bright, 

Brings warmth, and joy, and gladness, 
But soon demure, approaching night, 

Restores the gloom and sadness. 



A FAREWELL TO JENNIE. 61 

Again 'tis dawn, new day begun, 

Fair promises we gather ; 
But clouds obscure the noonday sun, 

There's mischief in the weather, 
'Tis thus our lives, though low or high, 

Have joys and sorrows many ; 
And now we bid a sad good-bye 

To birds, and flowers, and Jennie. 
But winter, too, cannot remain — 

"We look for better weather. 
We shall not sorrow or complain, 

But smile, in hope, together ; 
And when we see sweet spring betide, 

And scatter joys for any, — 
We'll open doors and windows wide, 

For birds, and flowers, and Jennie! 



PIC-NIC DINNER SONG. 

TINKLE, tattle, forks that rattle- 
Sign of coming noon ; 
Like a banjo in a battle, 

Sounds the silver spoon. 
Tinkle, rattle, plates that prattle 

Of the dinner near ; 
And we know that girls will tattle, 

If you stop to hear. 
Tinkle, rattle, bells of cattle 

Hint of coming cream; 
Sober, sound, and nothing battle, 

Like an eagle's scream. 
Chinkle, chinkle, bells that sprinkle 

Little drops of sound ; 
And we know, by tinkle, tinkle, 

Where the sheep are found. 
So we know, by jumble, ramble, 

Boys are on the fly — 
See the rascals in a scramble 

Over chicken pie! 
And we know, by laughs that mingle, 

Girls are gathered near; 
All of them are living single, 

As they now appear. 



PIC-NIC DINNER SONG. 63 

Cupid says they still are under 

Thirty years and ten ; 
But the little god will blunder, 

Just as mortal men! 
Cupid says they all are pretty — 

That no one disputes ; 
But the little god is witty, 

Full of shams and moots. 
Never take the word of Cupid, — 

Test the truth, my friend ! 
He that follows him is stupid, 

Losing in the end. 

This is how Mike Daley grounded, 

Trusting Cupid's oar, — 
Bark was tipped and love was drownded, 

Forty leagues from shore; 
And his bark, without insurance, 

Drifted down the bay, 
But, by dint of brave endurance, 

He survives to-day. 
Battle, rattle, oh, the prattle, 

Shining forks and spoons — 
Hear the talk and all the tattle, — 

What a lot of loons ! 
Such loud prattle would drown battle, — 

Yet we have no wine ! 
Let us stop this constant rattle, 

And begin to dine. 



DUKE JOHN. 

DUKE John, may your lordship, your 
grace, 
Ever possess a smiling face; 
And may your legal education 
Win for you great reputation; 
May it surpass our expectation. 
We think you, like Bacon, judicious and wise, 
And may you, like Erskine, in glory arise, 
And may you be truthful, affording surprise. 
For miracles are so uncommon, 
And the mind of man, poor human, 
Is so dull of comprehension, 
But failing of such honor, we pray 
You'll be sent embassador to Botany Bay.* 

* A place to which Great Britain transports criminals. 



IEENE. 

CUPID, searching for a queen, 
Caught a glimpse of fair Irene. 
Rustle of the growing wheat, 
Ripple of the waters fleet, 
Gleam of gold, or silver spar, 
Twinkles of the evening star, — 
Could not lure him, for, I ween, 
He was blinded by Irene. 
Mellow tints or rainbow hues, 
Sparkle bright of morning dews, 
Tinkle of the bells of sheep, 
Winds that waft the daisy's sleep, 
Quiet lakes, with silver sheen, — 
Could not tempt him from Irene. 
Hum of bees 'mid orchard boughs, 
Where the little birdlings house; 
Ocean shells, and songs, and flowers, 
All have lost their magic powers. 
Cupid fairer aight has seen — 
All his thoughts are of Irene! 



DEATH OF AN OLD BACHELOR. 

O'ER the pathway of life an old bachelor 
seared 
Took a sorrowful look and then disappeared. 
His exit was sudden — poor desolate soul — 
He darted from life like a squirrel to his 

hole. 
Yet the movement was quiet, like a star of 

the sky, 
He flickered from sight with no word of 

good-bye. 
The country was roused and inquiry was 

made, 
No one had made note that so soon he would 

fade. 
No one could explain it, all theories combine, 
Revealed not the cause of his sudden decline ; 
But people were restless and wanted to know 
The cause of this sudden, o'er- shadowing 

woe. 
The coroner came and examined each bone, 
But declared that the cause of his death 

was unknown. 
The doctors then came and a council was held, 
To see if such mystery might be dispelled. 



DEATH OF AX OLD BACHELOR. 67 

They looked at the face, but it seemed as 

serene 
As the moon at its full when no clouds 

intervene ; 
They bent o'er the form, they got down on 

their knees, 
But they saw not the symptoms of any dis- 
ease. 
So, filled with a purpose to save other lives, 
They drew out their lancets and ground up 

their knives. 
They examined the brain, but they found no 

defect, 
It was better by far than they could expect; 
And the lungs were as sound as a crab- apple 

green, 
Not a pimple upon them was there to be 

seen. 
The throat was as perfect as any could 

wish, 
Capacious and wide as the gill of a fish ; 
But picture you may, how the doctors all 

start, 
When probing still deeper they come to the 

heart. 
As fishers long toiling pull net to the shore, 
And capture the game that was wily before, 



68 DEATH OF AN OLD BACHELOR. 

They tugged at his heart, but they found it 

as big, 
As a cistern that's empty and quite out of 

rig. 
They thumped and they thumped but it only 

said "Thug," 
In a tone that resembled an old empty jug. 
And worse and still worse, more misfortune 

befell, 
"When they found that his heart was begin- 
ning to swell. 
They wonderingly watched till it grew so 

immense, 
It filled up the yard and then broke down 

the fence. 
A dog that stood by was so scared by the 

crash, 
That he made a short turn and ran home 

with a dash. 
The doctors were frightened and hid in a 

tree, 
And waited to see what the issue would be. 
The process continued ; it grew all the while, 
Till it covered the country for over a mile. 
And then, as all danger will sometime be 

o'er, 
It settled itself and expanded no more, 



DEATH OP AS OLD BACHELOR. 69 

The doctors, now thinking it safe 10 draw near, 
Dismissed all their doubts and came down 

with a cheer. 
But how to explore this huge mountain of 

flesh, 
Examine each gulf and unravel each mesh, 
Was a task that appalled them ; they feared 

to explore 
A country where no one had traveled before. 
So acting with caution they went to a hill, 
And climbed to the top of a flouring-mill. 
With spy-glasses furnished they gazed at 

the sight, 
But they saw not a thing that afforded de- 
light. 
Like the marks on the moon all disfigured it 

lay, 
With ledges of rock that seemed ashen and 

gray; 
And gorges and caves that no doubt were so 

deep, 
Some demon had dug them and gone down 

to sleep. 
And river beds dry and all sprinkled with 

bones, 
And shells that had washed from the 

fartherest zones; 



70 DEATH OF AN OLD BACHELOR. 

And trunks of old trees, and billows of sand, 

That tempests of ages had garnered and 
fanned. 

And rocks that were scattered as if giants 
at play, 

Had tossed them about on some grand holi- 
day. 

The' doctors concluding to closer approach, 

Now sent to the city and ordered a coach. 

They drove to the top of the heart with all 
speed, 

But found it a desolate country indeed ; 

Not a blade of green grass, not a twig or a 
flower, 

Not the sign of a bud to beguile a sad hour, 

Not a form to caress, not a thing to delight — 

'Twas the home of old Chaos and haunt of 
the night. 

But relics they found which maae it appear, 

That in ages gone by it was tenanted there ; 

Some wish-bones of chickens, now hardened 
to stone, 

And walls of a mansion with moss over- 
grown, 

And on it inscribed these words were still 
seen: 

"I lived upon promise with blarney between, 



DEATH OF AN OLD BACHELOR. *71 

But a drouth coming on, when nothing would 

grow, 
I packed up my things, and have moved down 

below. 
Just turn to the right till you come to a 

mound, 
On the north is a door at which you must 

pound. 
If no one makes answer, then pound quite 

severe, 
For down in this country 'tis hard to make 

hear. 
But ere you come in, bid your friends all 

adieu, — 
'Tis the last they will look upon any of you; 
For down in this region of flower and fern, 
So delighted all comers, they never return; 
And so balmy the air, and so healthy the 

shore, 
That they who dwell here will live ever- 
more ! " 
The doctors, excited, with footsteps quite 

fleet, 
Proceeded to follow directions complete. 
They came to the mound, and on entering 

there, 
They gazed on a world most surprisingly fair. 



72 DEATH OF AN OLD BACHELOR. 

There were groves of red roses, and hedges 
of flowers; 

There was highlight and twilight, and sun- 
shine, and showers; 

There were mountains and valleys, and rivers 
that wind 

Through orchards and meadows, with wood- 
lands behind; 

There were birds of bright plumage, and 
bees on the wing; 

There were lilies, and lilacs, and splendors 
of spring, 

It was Eden itself in miniature form, — 

Except that, at times, it was somewhat too 
warm. 

The doctors, delighted, determined to stay, 

So they asked for a lot how much they must 
pay. 

Four hundred and fifty a foot, they were told, 

And payment must be in the purest of gold ; 

For business was brisk, and the place on a 
boom, 

And all the hotels were crowded for room. 

But soon they found shelter, no one need 
depart, — 

There's a welcome for all in a bachelor's 
heart ! 



DEATH OF AN OLD BACHELOR. *73 

And now the world knows the cause of his 

death : 
It was not on account of a shortness of 

breath ; 
It was not disappointment — a thousand times 

no! 
That brought on the world this horrible woe. 
His heart, overloaded, broke down with the 

weight, — 
And that was, as usual, the bachelor's fate! 



FOUR FAIR MAIDS. 

WINTER, Summer, Autumn, Spring, 
Then's the time for everything. 
Spring is when we plant tomatoes, 
Autumn's when we dig potatoes, 
Summer's when Spring birds are older, 
Winter's when the days are colder. 
Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring, 
Then's the time for everything. 

Spring is when fair maidens, looming, 
Beat the roses in their blooming ; 
Summer's sweets and they, combining, 
Pale the stars in glory shining. 
Autumn's frost, I pray you linger, — 
Glove awhile your icy finger. 
Winter, wait, and be forbearing — 
Four fair maids are young and daring. 

Wait till they, so sweet and tender, 
Find a strong and true defender! 
Wait till they, so young and growing, 
Learn that thimbles are for sewing! 
Wait till they will bravely risk it, — 
That they know light bread from biscuit; 
Then, if favoring winds are blowing, 
Proper time has come for going! 



FOUR FAIR MAIDS. 75 

Winter, Summer, Autumn, Spring, 
Then's the time for anything. 
Catch the trout, or track the beaver, — 
Find your love, and never leave her ; 
Plant the pansy, pluck the daisy, — 
Why should we be slow or lazy ? 
Gladden life with harmless pleasure, — 
Let us have our dues' full measure, 
In Winter, Summer, Spring or Fall, — 
We want them then, ov xiot at all ! 



A VALENTINE. 

YOU are my darling, 
I am your beau; 
You are a jewel, 
Undoubtedly so. 

I am a lover, 

Living in doubt; 
You are a mystery 

Past finding out. 

I am but common, 

While you are bon ion; 

My home is a cottage, 
And yours a salon. 

I eat when at dinner, 

You pick at dessert; 
I come to court you, 

And you act the flirt. 

My garb is the russet, 

In silk you attire; 
I journey on foot, 

And you ride with the squire. 



A VALENTINE. 11 

I am no singer, 

Your voice is a bird's ; 
Ye seraphs keep silent ! 

Or hum her sweet words. 

And you are a jewel, 

A brilliant, a gem ; 
A rose of October, 

The last on the stem. 

A fairy, an angel, 

The brightest one, too; 
Accept this short ditty, 

Then, darling, adieu. 



A HOESE IS A HOUSE. 

AHOESE is a horse, and a mule is a 
mule, 
No matter how much you may speed them ; 
A man is a man, and a fool is a fool, 

No matter what food you may feed them. 
A dog is a dog, whatever his bark, 

No matter how well you may treat him ; 
A hog is a hog, though kept in a park, 
Or anywhere else that you meet him. 
A man may inhabit a house that is fine, 

Surrounded by all that is fairest, — 
May feast upon honey, and mutton and wine, 

And dainties, the best and the rarest ; 
His galvanized manners may make him ap- 
peal- 
Superior to servants about him, — 
May fill a poor yeoman with awe and with fear, 

Till he dares to do nothing without him ; 
But who would be jealous of such a man's 
state, 
For the little short day that he thrives in ? 
For the pigmy aims and the petty hate, 
And the shriveled~up heart that he hives 
in?-. 



A HORSE IS A HORSE. 79 

For wealth cannot make a gentleman fine, 

When habit a beast has enrolled him — 
It's only the casting of jewels to swine, 

To honor or try to uphold him. 
But he is a man whose heart is still warm, 

No matter how fortune may frown him ; 
Who labors for good, and never for harm, 

And, by-and-by, angels will crown him! 



WELCOME TO SPRING. 

SPRING with her smiling face 
Welcome we here! 

Where was her hiding place 

All the long year? 
Down in the vale below, 
Down where the lilies grow — 
Nook that the seasons know, 

Where none can peer. 

Spring has a step so light — 

No one can hear ; 
But when the sky grows bright, 

Then she is near. 
Winds hint of her advance, 
Fountains begin to dance. 
Birds know there's no mischance- 
Yes, she is here. 

Spring will not long abide, 

Soon she will go ; 
Down where the seasons hide, 

Far down below. 
Soon will her flowerets fold, 
Beauty be turned to mould, 
Sadly her story told — 

Queen of the year, 



WELCOME TO SPRING. 81 

Maiden with forehead fair, 

Face with a smile ; 
Silken and shining hair, 

Wait for a while. 
Keep the sad hours at bay, 
Drive the dark clouds away, 
Liven the dullest day — 

Maiden so young. 

Maiden with eyes of brown, 

Welcome we you; 
On thee no shadows frown, 

All the year through. 
May peace with thee abide, 
Pleasure with thee reside, 
And naught of ill betide, 

All the year long. 

Maiden, you too must go, 

Time may be near ; 
When, in the vale below, 

Daisies will hear. 
Winds of the Autumn moan, 
Here rests the fair alone, 
And now her name's unknown — 

Maiden so rare! 
6 



82 WELCOME TO SPRING. 

Maiden, they are not true — 

Such words so sad; 
We shall remember you, 

And shall be glad. 
Earth may engulf thy form, 
Tempests around thee storm, 
Naught can dispel thy charm — 

Maiden so fair! 



"SMOKER JIM." 

PRELUDE. 

FOREVER honored be Queen Bess, 
Great Britain's maiden queen! 
Thanks to her royal mightiness, 
Tobacco first was seen, 

Within the realm of England. 
Sir Walter brought it from the West, 
From out the land that we love best. 
Oh, sweetly may his spirit rest, — 
Raleigh, of England! 

SONG. 

Oh, the pleasures of the smoker, 

As he puffs his pipe! 
Isn't he a jolly joker 

Of that noble type, 
Who never rouse a settled sorrow, 
Put off weeping till the morrow, 
Loan their cares, but do not borrow? 

Bless the pipe! 

Oh, the glory of the smoker, 

As he whiffs his cigar! 
Isn't he a happy joker, 

With a wit that leaves no scar ? 



84 "SMOKER JIM." 

How he smiles with all his features, 
How he loves his fellow-creatures, — 
Puffs, in praise of worthy teachers, 
The cigar! 

Oh, the peace that soothes the smoker, 

As he draws his cigar! 
He that hates him is a croaker, 

Carrying blame too far. 
How he lifts his feet and poses, 
How he nods and how he dozes, 
As in sleep his vision closes, — 

Blessed cigar! 

Ever honored be the smoker 

As he puffs with cheer ; 
Better far to be a toper 

Of tobacco than of beer! 
See the smoke about him hover, 
Faithful as an ardent lover, — 
What a light and fairy cover, — 

Smoke so clear! 

Now, I know a witty smoker, — 
Some have called him " Jim," — 

For he is a jolly joker, 
And can sing a hymn. 



"smoker jim." 85 

How his voice will pitch and roll 
From the caverns of his soul, 
Till it reach some distant goal 
Known to him! 

And this jolly, pleasant smoker, 

Happy angel, Jim! 
Soars above the common croaker, 

Like the seraphim. 
And though sorrow may subdue him 
Still we trust it can't get to him, 
Far above it now we view him — 

Noble Jim! 

But this worthy social smoker 

Sprightly, merry Jim ; 
Shrewd and comic as a joker, 

You may picture him. 
Pays his debts if so he please, 
Creditors can cough and wheeze, 
When he settles they may sneeze — 

Spendthrift Jim! 

But, again, this worthy smoker, 

Truly social Jim, 
Never paints his face with ochre, — 
All should honor him. 



86 "SMOKER JIM." 

For his acts are not deceiving, 
All lie says is worth believing, 
Worlds would weep to see him grieving- 
Friendly Jim! 

Blessings on the jolly smoker, 

Happy, witty Jim! 
With a common broom and poker, 

Keep your mustache trim. 
And may winter winds pass by thee, 
Prowling dangers fail to spy thee, 
Tropic heat can never dry thee — 

Humid Jim ! 

But 'tis feared this social smoker 

Kind and friendly Jim, 
May be fleeced by some vile broker, 

Or by lawyers grim. 
Smoking will not sate his hunger, 
Smoking will not make him stronger, 
Credit he can get no longer — 

Needv, luckless Jim! 

Who will keep the poor old smoker? 

Slouchy, sloven Jim! 
He that was a jolly joker, 

Can but scold and whim. 



"SMOKER JIM." 87 

Wintry age has found him needy, 
With old clothes all torn and seedy, 
Curses on a habit greedy — 
Such as followed Jim. 



A BOY'S WISHES. 

CHILDREN'S years are very long, 
Nights and days move slow. 
Wish that I was big and strong, 
, Then I'd dare to go 
Up the street and on the hills — 

I'd drive the horses, too ; 
I'd make the engines run the mills, 
And push the work right through! 

I'd show the world what I could do, — 

I'd wander far and wide ; 
I'd travel every country through ; 

I wouldn't walk — I'd ride. 
I wouldn't be afraid to go, 

Because I'd have a gun; 
And all the robber Indians know 

That I would never run! 

The school-room is a dreary place; 

They keep us all day through — 
I'd rather go and run a race, 

Or stay out here with you. 
I'm 'fraid the time will never come 

When I will be a man, — 
When I can go and leave my home, 

And follow out my plan. 



a boy's wishes. 89 

I wish that I could thrash Tom Brown — 

He thinks he's mighty big! 
He knocked my little brother down, 

And broke my whirligig. 
And I would like to skate as fast 

As Billy Jones, and Fred; 
I wouldn't let them get apast, — 

I'd keep ten feet ahead! 

Last night we boys had lots of fun, 

It's fun to catch a fish, 
I caught thirteen, and Billy none — 

He didn't get his wish. 

But Billy is the greatest chap, 

That ever wore a shoe ; 
One day he snatched Will Jenkins' cap, 

And tore it right in two. 
But when the teacher found it out, 

He sent out Jimmy Vance 
To cut a little hickory sprout — 

And didn't Billy dance ? 

I wish that it was winter time, 

And I could run and slide ; 
I like to hear the sleigh-bells chime, 

And see the fun beside. 



90 A boy's wishes. 

And winter's when the Christmas comes, 

For you and me and all ; 
Some boys get sleds and others drums — 

I want a rubber ball. 

These summer ciays are dreadful long, 

When will they all go by? 
We boys are getting old and strong, 

And most ashamed to cry. 
The little chaps we don't molest, 

We let them have their play, 
We older boys will work our best, 

But I must say good day. 



A MOTHER'S CAEE. 

AS birds from Northern lands take flight, 
When falling leaves give warning; 
As travelers, on approach of night, 

Make halt and wait for morning; 
As sailors, on the surging seas, 

Look, anxious, for the harbor ; 
As lonesome woodmen leave the trees, 

When night is darkening over ; 
As soldiers, in the tented field, 

Look homeward with deep yearning 
As wanderers, on the distant wild, 

Think fondly of returning ; 
As miners 'merge from damp and gloom, 

To bask in sunlight's greeting; 
As city folks in fields find room 

For freer, happier meeting : — 
So, to the child, the mother's heart 

Is comfort, shelter, cover; 
When grief would rend his soul apart, 

She spreads a healing over. 
The falling tears are scarce begun, 

When kindly words are proffered — 
" Don't cry," and " Never mind, my son," 

And soft hands stroke his forehead. 



92 a mother's care. 

The child is calmed, his sorrows cease, 

His heart beats brave, and stronger; 
The troubles that disturbed his peace 

Are vexing him no longer. 
The little man mature has grown, 

The marks of years are on him ; 
But never shall he cease to own 

The love bestowed upon him. 
And never can the debt be paid, 

Maternal care imposes. 
Like lilies in the field arrayed, 

Like distant blooming roses, — 
Far out of reach and in the past, 

On memory's upland growing, 
Kind actions live whose blooms will last, 

Whose fragrance, ever blowing, 
Make glad the heart and warm the life 

With kindlier, better feeling 
Than in the wicked whirl of strife, 

Where selfishness, prevailing, 
So often fills the heart with gall, 

And makes men hate each other. 



JUNE. 

COME, merry, gay month, come, June, 
with your roses, 
We welcome you here as our guest, 
With all the wild flowers that summer dis- 
closes, 
O make this your home and here rest! 

In seasons before you seemed but a caller, 
Just bowing a greeting, then gone — 

Were those your best visits, and shall they 
grow smaller, 
As time with his cycles rolls on ? 

O merry June month, you came tripping so 
lightly, 
With squirrels, with birds and with bees ; 
We trust you will treat these young friends 
all politely, 
And make them here feel at their ease. 

Ill bred it would be now to leave us abruptly, 
Dispersing this gay, happy throng ; 

And they shall be punished who act thus 
corruptly, 
Inflicting so senseless a wrong. 



94 JUNE. 

We'll try, merry month, to oe more enter- 
taining, 
"We, and this circle of friends ! 
We hope that no one will have cause for 
complaining, 
Before this glad gathering ends. 

O what shall be theme for pleasant con- 
versing, 
Of what shall we talk for a while ? 
Of love or of war, or old stories rehears- 
ing— 
Or how shall we summon a smile? 

The meadow- lark chirps and the robin is 
calling, 
They seem to be happy and gay; 
The brook bass frisks riot where bright 
waters falling, 
Run frothing and foaming away. 

The herds move apace to green pastures in- 
viting, 

They sport like a boy at his play — 
Oh, sure it is sweet if it is not exciting, 

When summer unfolds such a day. 



JUNE. 95 

The little lad, tired of study, is wishing 
For orders to lay up his books ; 

It would be such an excellent day to go fishing, 
Or bathe in the babbling brooks. 

And soon as released right out he goes 
bounding, 
He has not a moment to lose ; 
He jumps and he shouts, and the echoes re- 
sounding, 
Proclaim the wild path he pursues. 

O face of the child, thou art part of our 
summer, 

Thy laugh and thy smiles are a share ; 
We welcome thee here, thou little newcomer, 

So free from the burden of care. 

You mingle your shouts with the songs of 
the thrushes, 

You sing in this chorus of glee ; 
You gambol as gay as the river that rushes 

Its waters far down to the sea. 

And over the meadows the sunshine is 
sleeping, 

The mist on the hills moveth slow ; 
While loitering kine come leisurely creeping 

From out of the valley below. 



96 JUNE. 



And down in the valley the lilies are waiting, 
All decked in a clothing of bloom ; 

They care riot for praise or for fame's highest 
rating — 
They wait to make bright the sick room. 

The lilies are kind and never contending, 

They live as a lesson for men. 
Their beauty is sweet, as humility bending — 

We bless them again and again. 

O merry June month, so rich are your 
treasures — 

You come as a queen in her state ; 
You scatter around us the rarest of pleasures, 

Your mission is love and not hate. 

Your bounty is great, but the wealth of your 

coffers 

Supports the high rank that you hold; 

You temper the chill of the world and its 

scoffers, 

Wherever your sunbeams have strolled. 

You came, merry month, in the seasons' 
procession, 

But let them their journey pursue; 
Abide thou with us till we make full confession 

Of the love that we cherish for you. 



FEARS AND TEARS. 

AS mountain deer will sometimes bound 
At the fancied bark of a huntsman's 

hound, 
So a child asleep on its mother's arm 
Will sometimes leap from dream of harm ; 
His piteous cry reveals his fears, 
And he pours them forth in floods of tears. 
But the little face, so wild and wet, 
Will not disbar a mother's pet 
From kisses that kill the ghouls of fright, 
Or drive them back in the realms of night. 
And sleep reclaims the little form, 
As shepherd shelters from the storm. 
But evil days pursue the child, 
He fears the dark and dreads the wild ; 
He looked for a stronger hand to lead, 
And thought the world was wide indeed — 
He tripped and fell and cried in pain, 
But sprang on his feet and was off again; 
And the child went on with the years that ran, 
And the boy gave place to the full grown man. 
But where are the tears of his childhood's 

face? 
Can we find a hint of their hiding-place? 
7 



98 FEARS A!NT> TEARS. 

They have left no trace that we can see, 

In the buried past they all must be. 

But the heart of the man doth sometimes 

still 
Have a touch as keen as winter's chill ; 
And meaning more than childhood's cry, 
He draws his breath with a heavy sigh — 
But the pride of the man doth hold control, 
And he checks the storm in his troubled soul. 
Yet times there are when sorrow deep 
Unmans the heart and warriors weep. 
O, who hath strength to conquer grief? 
Destroy its power or make it brief? 
Do we not hear the wide world's moan? 
Do we not heed the undertone 
Amid the lulls of the warring world, 
When strife asks truce and flags are furled; 
A saddened sound like the sobbing sea, 
Which hints of wrecks that afar may be ; 
A murmur like the winds that wave 
The treetops round a lonely grave ; 
And like the winds that plough the main, 
And like the storms that bow the grain. 
So sorrow ranges far and near, 
And takes the tribute of a tear 
From man and child, from rich and poor, 
And dogs their steps from door to door. 



FEARS AND TEARS. 99 

Then days grow dark and nights are cold, 
And men of strength grow weak and old ; 
And frost works death and flowers decay, 
And birds of spring are flown away. 
Yet, wintry gloom, you too must go ! 
The warming sun will melt the snow ; 
And grass will green the hill and slope, 
And spring will sow the seeds of hope. 
The somber skies will light to blue, 
And let the birds come flocking through. 
And boats will sail along the shore, 
And flowers will bloom as heretofore ; 
And time will come when war will cease, 
When men will live in perfect peace ; 
When ripened fruit of good seed sown 
Will bless mankind in every zone. 



DAY-BREAK. 

F winter reigns haughtily all through the 
hills, 

And there's snow in the valleys below; 
If ice has fettered the flowing rills, 

And the flowers no longer grow ; 
If chilling winds from the cold Northeast 

Have driven the birds away ; 
If flocks no longer can find a feast 

In the fields, though they search all 
day; 
If leaden skies shed somber light, 

And land and sea seem drear — 
Shall we say that the world is doomed to 
night 

And darkness all the year? 
Shall we look no more for opening spring, 

And the violet's purple bed? 
Shall we hear no more the rustling wing 

Of the wild bird overhead? 
Shall spring and summer cease to be, 

And their works of love resign, — 
No leaves to cover the maple tree, 

No flowers to flush the vine? 



DAT-BREAK.. 101 

But spring will come; the balmy days, 

Though seeming distant still, 
Are marching, on appointed ways, 

Their mission to fulfill. 
No power of earth can hinder now 

The march of the coming spring; 
The birds will sing in the greenwood bough, 

While the woods with music ring. 

And better days for men will dawn, 

Than we are passing through. 
The powers of truth are pressing on, 

And making all things new. 
For I know that the world is tired of strife, 

Of the dizzy din of war; 
And I know that it longs for a better life 

Than in years that have gone before. 
I know that it hates the hateful man, 

And the arts that makes deceit; 
I know what it thinks of fields where ran 

Red blood on the trampled wheat. 

I know that it loves the kind and good, 
And the generous, loving heart; 

And words of praise, when understood, 
Are for those who have a part 



102 DAY-BREAK. 

In raising up to a higher plane 
The struggling and oppressed, 

Who, toiling onward, try to gain 
Their rights, and peace, and rest. 

But around us lies a stricken camp, 

Annoyed by pains and fears; 
The victims of the cold and damp, 

And the sins of six thousand years. 
The malice, the pride and hateful lust, 

That, all through the centuries past, 
Have turned the flower of man to dust, — 

Shall their ravages always last? 
Shall sin and sorrow never cease, 

Nor battle's deadly shock? 
And when the angels sang of peace, 

Did they only mean to mock? 

As God is God, as the seasons come 

We look for a better spring, 
When earth shall be a peaceful home, — 

When joy in everything 
Shall prove the love of the power that holds 

The helm of the moving spheres, — 
Of Him who in his wisdom molds 

The events of all the years. 



DAY-BREAK. 103 

But what are the signs of morning break, — 

Or are we far in the day? 
Is the watchman on Mt. Sear awake 

To the brightness of its ray? 
As clouds may oft obscure the light, 

When the orb of day has risen — 
We may be farther from the night, 

And nearer out of prison 
Than wise men think, who, in the schools 

Of grave experience, make a chart 
And think, by the use of common rules, 

To measure the great world's heart! 

Some have no hope, and think a change 

For future good is not in store, — 
The door, still swinging on its hinge, 

Will swing, they say, no farther than 
before. 
They little think what the Ruling Power 

May bring to pass in a day; 
They little know what flying hour 

May bring new laws into play! 
They little think of the love of God, 

And the word of the Sacred Book, — 
That the plowshare shall supplant the 
sword, 

The spear yield to the pruning-hook. 



104 DAY-BREAK. 

And when the Savior spake to some, 

And a form of prayer had given, 
He bade them say, "Thy kingdom come," 

And " Thy will on earth as in heaven." 
And in the prayer the Savior used, 

Did the words no meaning make? 
Or is our language now abused 

When we say, "For Jesus' sake"? 



We cannot see as from Patmos Isle, 

The scroll of Time unrolled, 
But we can note events meanwhile, 

And know what the past hath told. 
So, back in the past we search to see, 

How much of good is lost; 
If men were better, the world more 
free, 

In ages that are past. 
And if the night grows still more dark, 

If the lights within burn low; 
If right and truth are but a spark, 

Or but an after-glow; 
If the Savior's life was of little note, 

And the martyrs died in vain, 
If all the good who ever wrote, 

Have failed to make truth plain; 



DAY-BREAK. 105 

If wrong is stronger than the right, 

And the powers of ill increase, 
Let us leave the field and no longer fight, 

But sue for terms of peace. 
But if the world has made advance, 

From history's earliest dawn, 
Who will not say there is a chance — 

The work may still go on. 



A SCHOOL-GIRL'S GREETING TO 
AUTUMN FLOWERS. 

AUTUMN flowers, what has delayed you 
That you came so late ? 
Were all the garments Nature made you 

Old and out of date ? 
Did you stop to trim and fit them, 

Fashion them with care? 
Did you wait to slowly knit them 

Into shapes they are? 
Was it hard to make selections 

When you came to choose 
Colors for your fair complexions 

From all rainbow hues ? 
Did the shop boy come as ordered 

With your package new? 
Were your 'kerchiefs neatly bordered, 

Such as suited you? 
Milliners are so provoking, 

How they fuss and mix ; 
They have learned the art of poking 

Patience out of fix. 
Did the druggist send the powder 

That you wanted soon ? 
Did he mix it worse than chowder, 

Like a silly loon? 



a school-girl's greeting to flowers. 107 

Tell me now what did delay you? 

Vex me not, I pray ! 
And I'm sure I'll not betray you — 

What have you to say ? 
Did a drunken coachman blunder 

Driving out of course ; 
And, if so, may I not wonder, 

You have fared no worse? 
O, you flowers are slow replying, 

And I can not wait — 
There's no reason for denying, 

I know why you're late. 
I saw you straying in the hollows, 

When I came from school; 
You were playing with the swallows, 

Close beside the pool. 
Some of you were in the hedges, 

Hiding, so I think; 
Some were seated in the sedges, 

Watching ducklings drink. 
In the woodlands some were tripping, 

To the music of the trees ; 
In the brooklet some were dipping, 

Sipping at their ease. 
Some away on distant meadows, 

Thinking no one near, 
Were flirting with the passing shadows, 

Making signs so queer! 



108 a school-girl's greeting to flowers. 

To the shadows they were nodding, 

To the shadows shy, 
But the shadows onward plodding, 

Only said good-bye. 
Now you hiding in the rushes, 

Do not wish to hear, 
But I see your modest blushes, 

And will give you cheer. 
I forgive you for delaying, 

All the summer long ; 
Since you are no longer straying, 

I forgive the wrong. 
I forgive you for your beauty, 

Such my love for you — 
It is but a pleasant duty, 

Friendship to renew. 
The birds have gone — they did forsake me- 

Their friendship was not strong ; 
They did not offer once to take me, 

To where the summer's long. 
The bees have settled in their dwelling, 

And closed their doors to me; 
When they come out there is no telling 

Where you and I shall be. 
The miser squirrels have gathered riches 

Like castled knights they dwell, 
Sequestered in secluded niches, 

They hold their plunder well. 



a school-girl's greeting to flowers. 109 

And so mere summer friends will vanish, 

They will not long remain — 
What little bars avail to banish 

The insincere and vain! 
But lingering flowers, I will caress you, 

On winter's marge so drear, 
You come to me and now I bless you, 

That you are gathered here. 
You come when other friends are leaving, 

You are so good and kind! 
You come to comfort me when grieving, 

And make me more resigned. 
Oh, tarry with me long, I pray you, 

And cheer me on my way; 
Though I cannot now repay you, 

For the pleasure of to-day. 
I know that wintry winds will numb you, 

"When your leaves are rolled ; 
Frost will seem to overcome you, 

So exposed to cold. 
Your wraps are light for winter weather, 

But, though you grow chill, 
Spring will find you all together — 

Life remaining still. 
Spring will strew the earth with roses, 

For the wise and true ; 
Every turn in life discloses 

Beauty, still in view. 



110 a school-girl's greeting to flowers. 

Every land is strewn with flowers, 

E'en cold Labrador ; 
Wide the circuit of their powers, 

Blessing every shore. 
Deep old ocean cannot drown them ! 

There they dwell secure ; 
Death itself but seems to crown them 

Brighter than before. 
So I think their race immortal, 

On the other shore. 
Just beyond the shining portal, 

Flowers bloom forever more. 
Only now I cannot name them, 

Roses, lilies they may be; 
But I have the faith to claim them 

For a land I do not see. 
Flowers of earth! you do assure me, 

Of a better life ; 
And your gentle ways allure me 

From the paths of strife. 
Here I know I shall have losses — 

Things to vex and to annoy ; 
But I'll count them trifling crosses 

When I reach the land of joy. 
Here our best laid plans are thwarted, 

Things we value disappear; 
And the world oft seems distorted**; 

Banning out of geay, 



a school-girl's greeting to flowers. Ill 

Dante fain would paint so brightly * 

For Beatrice ; but the spell 
Broken was by scenes unsightly 

And intrusions that befell, 
Ere the picture was completed: 

From the city callers came ; 
Dante's project they defeated, — 

Robbing art of his high name. 
From the story so impressing, 

Fancy can supply 
But a poor, imperfect guessing 

Of a work that should not die. 
Oh, the pictures not completed! 

Oh, the plans that yield to fate ! 
But we'll not give up, defeated, — 

Flowers and victory oft are late. 



* Dante once sat down to paint a picture of an angel, for 
Beatrioe. He was interrupted by callers from the city, and, 
laying aside the work, never finished it. 



THE SNOW STORM. 

Of all the storms that sail the air, 

Or sweep the earth below, 
There is none half so fair — 
There is none to compare — 

With white-flaked winter snow. 

The winds that fitful round us stray, 

We know not where they go ; 
Sometimes they play, 
Sometimes they slay — 

We trust them not as snow. 

The mists that hang about the steep 

May hover where they grow; 
Like babes they creep, 
Or sometimes sleep — 

They do not frisk as snow. 

The fogs have followed a strange pursuit ;- 
They are worse than winds that blow; 

They boldly dispute 

The brave mariner's route — 

They are more to dread than snow. 



THE SNOW STORM. 113 

The rain so often makes a call, 

Its footsteps well we know; 
It blesses rich and poor and all — 
We love to hear it gently fall, 

Though not so gay as snow. 

The hail is rough, uncouth and plain, 

It loves to pelt and throw; 
It beats down the grain, 
The young lambs are slain — 

It's more severe than snow. 

The sleet is sister to the hail, 

And plays a patter low; 
It sallies out in any gale, 
And cares not whom it may assail— 

It's not so mild as snow. 

So, of all the storms that sail the air 

Or sweep the earth below, 
There is none half so fair — 
There is none to compare 

With the fairy, feathery snow. 

And thus it is that falling light, 

As it whitens earth below, 
It hints of a land forever bright, 
Of a country where there is no night, 

And all is pure as snow. 
8 



WHY SHOULD AUTUMN BID ADIEU? 

WHY should Autumn bid adieu, 
And take our golden treasures ? 
Eas it no calling to pursue 

But rob us of our pleasures? 
The little flowers that summer left, 

What harm to let them linger? 
It seems an act of petty theft 

When Autumn's frosty finger 
Coils round our little blooming friends, 

And shrivels forms so tender. 
O Autumn, you make small amends 

For such a gross offender! 
And then the songs of birds you take, 

On winds that howl and drivel; 
You find not one excuse to make 

For activity so uncivil. 
And Autumn, you deceived us so, 

We loved when first we met you 
In purple, gold and garnet glow, 

All Nature seemed to pet you. 
To you was given mellow fruit 

And ripened nuts well crowned you, 
And Indian summer for your suit 

Hung gently all around you. 



WHY SHOULD AUTUMN BID ADIEU? 115 

And golden corn was in your keep, 

And golden-rod and heather, 
And on green hill, the grazing sheep, 

Strayed on in mellow weather. 
And working bees plied at their task — 

They sipped your blooming clover; 
And every thing that you could ask 

Or wish was given over. 
No other season boasts such wealth 

As to you has succeeded, 
And yet you take from us, by stealth, 

What we would give if needed. 
Now why should you bid us adieu, 

And take our golden treasures? 
Have you no calling to pursue, 

But rob us of our pleasures ? 
Oh yours is like the greed of man! 

No riches ever sent him 
Prevent him grasping all he can, 

Or very well content him. 



THE KINGDOMS OF NATURE; 



—OR— 



Life and Organization from the Elements to Man; 

Being a Following of Matter and Force into Vitality, Vitality into Organization, 
and Organization into the Various Types of Being Culminating in Man. 



RANSOM DEXTER, A.M., M.D., LL.D. 



Dr. Dexter, of this city, for many years Professor of Zoology, Anatomy and 
Physiology in the University of Chicago, has, in about 500 pages, presented a 
comprehensive view of the science of material organisms. The book collates the 
leading facts of natural history in such sequence and with such explanation and 
illustration as to convey an intelligible idea of the plan on which the world of 
animated nature is built up from the inanimate. The volume is strewn with 
the names of genera and species perhaps a little more liberally than the unscien- 
tific reader may deem necessary; but there is plenty of very interesting reading 
matter, which will convey a vast amount of information, even to one who is too 
listless to refer to the glossary for the pronunciations and meanings of the "hard 
words." The work really contains a treatment of the subject which is new in 
some important respects, and comprises the latest conclusions arrived at by the 
most eminent toilers in this field of investigation. The chapter on " Life " is es- 
pecially interesting, as it contains an able discussion of the question which has 
puzzled the ablest minds of historic ages, and was doubtless a vexing problem 
long before men became wise enough to write. The last chapter, treating of the 
"Facial Angle," is in facts, if not in words, the most eloquent existing exposi- 
tion of the relation between form and function through the whole range of the 
vertebrate division of the animated kingdom. The book is handsomely made. 
The illustrations are numerous, and, without exception, well executed. As a 
work written, printed and published in this city, it deserves notice as a specimen 
of what Chicago can accomplish both scientifically and mechanically. — Chicago 
Tribune. 

"The Kingdoms of Nature" is published in one large octavo volume, 
printed from new (pica) type, bound in the most substantial and elegant man- 
ner, and furnished at the following moderate price : 

In English Silk Cloth, $3.50; In Sheep, Library Style, 84.50; 
In Half Morocco, Gilt Edge, $6.00. 

CHARLES H. KERR & CO., Publishers, 

1 75 Dearborn Street, CHICAGO. 



U 



jack's afire; 

— OR — 

"THE BURTON TORCH," 



By FLORENCE M. CAMPBELL. 



"Jack's Afire" is a novel name for a book. The author says in her preface : 
"In this every day story for every day people, 'Jack' is a pine knot, a beacon 
lighted symbol of a girl's life and work," she explains further that it is a game 
in which the players light a pine knot, and pass it from hand to hand aronnd a 
circle, each giving it such motion as keeps it in a blaze. In passing it to a second 
hand the player repeats "Jack's Afire," and if the torch ceases to blaze the player 
pays a forfeit. The book abounds in beautiful home pictures and impurses one 
with the nobility and grandeur of right living. It is so brimming full of life, and 
the spirit and honesty of a live American girl so pervades every chapter that it 
seems out of place to criticise any of the faults of the writing. — Chicago Inter 
Ocean. 

It is a wholesome home story, full of gentle grace and thoughtful feeling 
and not only commands respect, but holds the interest to the end. The writer haa 
a purpose in view, Vut does not permit herself to become either priggish or 
pedantic in pursuit of that purpose.— Chicago Herald. 

The story is written in such downright good faith and enthusiasm, and it 
carries with it such a wholesome moral atmosphere, that it defies carping criti- 
cism. It details the struggles of two girls to keep their torch aflame by courage, 
hard work and family love, and truly they did their work nobly, and kept "Jack 
afire" to the last extremity. The scenes are laid first in Wisconsin, and after- 
wards across the Mississippi in a prairie home. It is a story of home love and 
devotion and is inspired throughout by a desire which never slackens to encourage 
right thinking and right living.— Chicago Tribune. 



Cloth. 12mo., 420 pages, $1.50. Agents wanted. 

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A PURE SOULED LIAR. 

"The daughter of a ballet dancer and a French costumer, who at, 
twenty was playing a leading role in a brilliant Paris theatre, tells 
her own story and that of her unprincipled husband and two 
young women with aspiring souls and Bohemian instincts, who 
become involved in his crimes and misfortunes. In an impulse of 
misplaced heroism, to shield her friend from unmerited shame, 
Christine assumes a burden of misunderstanding and opprobrium 
and becomes a " pure souled liar." The fatal consequences of this 
generous breach of veracity, both upon its victim and upon inno- 
cent third parties, are clearly depicted. The lesson conveyed is 
none the less wholesome and impressive because it draws its own 
moral." — Woman's Journal. 

"Terse, compact, rapid and intense." — Chicago Tribune. 

'• The title is remarkable and so is the story," — Boston Saturday 
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"Original in plot, entertaining in development, and pervaded 
w ith a wonderful air of reality." — Toledo Bee. 

'"A Pure Souled Liar' is the remarkable title of a novel by an 
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and humor as to style." — Cambridge Tribune. 

PAPER, I6M0, 191 PAGES. 50 CENTS. 

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THE SAILING OF KING OLAF 



AND OTHER POEMS BY 



ALICE WILLIAMS BROTHERTON. 

The poem which gives the book its title is well known, while 
the others, all short pieces, are not only musical but full of thought 
and delicious fancy. They . . . show an unfaltering trust in 
human goodness, and a faith in the ultimate righting of things that 
now perplex us.— Philadelphia Record. 

"The Sailing of King Olaf," the poem which gives the book its 
title, is a finely treated Norse legend, and the " Rose Songs " are very 
light and dainty, showing great delicacy of imagination and sportive 
play of fancy. — New Orleans Times-Democrat. 

There is no want of variety In these poems; in subject, treatment 
and metre a pleasing change is constantly made. There are some 
which satisfy us with a single reading, while others we re-read with 
pleasure, retaining a few in permanent friendship. — Providence Sim- 
day Telegram. 

A beautifully printed little volume. . . . We can commend 
it to all lovers of poetry for the fine quality of what it contains. 
— Boston Transcript. 

Mrs. Brotherton's reputation as a graceful writer has long since 
been established by her contributions to Century, Scribner, Harper, 
IAppincott and the Atlantic Monthly. . . . Hers is thought-poetry 
and not jingle. — New York Letter in Cincinnati Illustrated News. 



Cloth, square 18mo., full gilt, red edges, 145 pages, $1.00 



CHARLES H. KERB& Co., Publishers, 

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reedom and Fellowship in Religion. 



A Collection of Essays and Addresses, with an Introduc- 
tion by O. B. Frothingham, on the 
Keligious Outlook. 

CONTENTS. 

The Nature of Religion. By David A. Wasson. 

The Unity and Universality of the Religious Ideas. By Samuel 
Longfellow. 

Freedom in Religion. By Samuel Johnson. 

Religion and Science. By John Weiss. 

Christianity and its Definitions. By William J. Potter. 

The Genius of Christianity and Free Religion. By Francis 
Ellingwood Abbot. 

The Soul of Protestantism. By O. B. Frothingham. 

Liberty and the Church in America. By John W. Chadwick. 

The Word Philanthropy. By Thomas Wentworth Higginson. 

Religion as Social Force. By Ednah D. Cheney. 

Voices from the Free Platform. Extracts from addresses by Ralph 
Waldo Emerson, O. B. Frothingham, Charles H. Mal- 
colm, Celia Burleigh, D. A. YVasson, Samuel Longfellow, 
C. D. B. Mills, Francis E. Abbot, Rabbi Isaac M. Wise, 
Julia Ward Howe, C. A. Bartol, Robert Dale Owen, 
William C. Gannett, T. W. Higginson, John Weiss, Lucy 
Stone, A. Bronson Alcott, F. B. Sanborn, Wendell 
Phillips, Horace Seaver and Lucretia Mott. 



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"SHOW US THE FATHER," 



By Minot J. Savage, Samuel K. Calthrop, Henry M. Simmons, John V. . 
Chadwick, William C. Gannett, Jenejn Lloyd Jones. 

Christian Register :— This little volume of 170 pages is an excellent sum- 
mary of the best and most characteristic religious thought of our age. If any 
one were to ask the question, Why must we have new thought in religion? the 
opening chapter, "The Change of Front of the Universe," would show very 
plainly why the ancient faith must have restatement. Indeed, the old formulas 
are not true to the modern mind. Is faith possible, then ? The same chapter is 
itself the utterance of a faith remarkably hearty and genuine. It rests on a basis 
of reason, and looks the facts of the world in the face. " But is not your faith," 
someone asks, "somewhat vague? Can it give us a real God to worship ?" To 
such questions, Mr. Calthrop's paper, quite memorable to all who first heard it in 
1886, at Saratoga, comes as a burst of eloquent conviction. Nothing is so real, 
loving, adorable, as this presence of God, throbbing in every inch of the uni- 
verse. All that science is for seems to be to bring this God more near. 

Mr. Simmons, in " The Divine Unity," impresses the same truth of the one 
divine Life present everywhere. He shows what Mr. Savage perhaps had not 
time to indicate,— that the best and highest thought has always been in this di- 
rection. The great seers, from the times of the Hebrew Scriptures, had eaid 
nearly the same things. They would have been quite at home with this later 
modern thought. What is it, then, to be a son of God ? It is to stand by ordnr 
and law; it is to be a peacemaker. For every one " who dwelleth in love" dwell- 
eth in God, and God in him." <g 

■ It one now needs to raise the question what revelation this God of our mod- 
ern thought has made, Mr. Chadwick's chapter ought to give large and happy 
assurance: "There is nothing but revelation. The universe is full of visions 
and voices." " Never has the revelation of God assumed such grand proportions 
or so grave a charm, such an awful splendor or such penetrating sweetness as at 
the present time. And it comes aa one of old, not to destroy, but to fulfill " 
Neither does Mr. Chadwick shrink in easy optimism from confronting the dread 
problem of evil, which, indeed, he justly surmises could not but be in a world 
that has to learn the heights of moral good and love. 

The closing chapters — Mr. Gannett's on "The Faith of Ethics" and Mr. 
Jones's on " Religion from the Near End " — fitly translate this new thought of 
religion into the terms and duties of practical lifp. How can one experience re- 
ligion? It used to be said by contemplation and fasting. Not so to-day. You 
shall experience religion and be assured of the presence of God by your common 
daily attitude and life. God shall manifest himself to you in the nearest duty to 
which you trust yourself, knowing only that it is right, but not knowing the con- 
sequences. This committal of yourself to whatever is true and right is the 
essence of faith. It is the same faith that believes in a beneficence that guides 
the stars. Learn your lesson of faith, then, where you are, and you shall rise to 
all faith. If Mr. Jones seems to any almost to overstate this, he can plead ad- 
mirable authority in one who was wont to rouse men to see his meaning through 
f 'arables and paradoxes. What makes the "near end " sacred to Mr. Jones ie hie 
arge faith in the universal life that binds small and great together. 

The six papers are a striking and significant illustration of what the New 
Faith tends to produce, — its feai lessness, its utter sincerity, the absence of all 
special pleading, its poetry, its eloquence, its zeal and love for humanity. 

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THE FAITH THAT MAKES FAITHFUL 

EIGHT SERMONS 



By "WILLIAM C. G-AKSTETT and JENKIN LLOYD JONES. 



By W. C. G.. 
Blessed be Drudgery! 
"I Had a Friend." 
A Cup of Cold Water. 
Wrestling and Blessing. 



By J. LI. J.: 
Faithfulness. 
Tenderness. 
The Seamless Bobe. 
The Divine Benediction. 



"Pregnant, pointed and pithy addresses, calculated to bring 
religion into closer connection with life." — New York Inde- 
pendent. 

* * * 
"All who try to make their religion a thing of the present, 
who try to find living remedies for living difficulties, will be 
greatly helped by this little publication." — Boston Transcript. 



Bright and sensible, kind and practical discourses, making 
little pretention, but bringing much benefit — pleasant as well 
as profitable reading. — The Week. 



Square i8mo., 137 pages, printed on heavy laid paper, in two 
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175 Dearborn Street, - CHICAGO. 



POEMS of JAMES VILA BLAKE 



PRESS OPINIONS. 

Nothing is more characteristic of Mr. Blake's poetry than a 
singular purity of thought and style. * * * We reconi' 
mend the volume as a whole to all who wish to see a novel 
landscape and breathe a fresh invigorating air. — John W 
( Jiadtvicky in the Index. . , 

Mr. Blake's poetry is the expression of a sincere, sympath 
etic and beautiful mind; it is gratefully unconventional, and it 
abounds with noble thoughts. — Ed-win D. Mead, in the Chris- 
tian Register. 

A superbly printed and bound collection of the poetical 
works of a Western author who is deserving of even greater 
popularity than he has attained. — Wisconsin State Journal. 

The verse is for the most part simple and graceful, and some 
of the poems disclose a deep poetic insight. — Chicago Evening 
Journal. 

A new essayist and a new poet, and strange to say, both in 
the same man; especially strange when we are compelled te 
add that when we read the essays, he seems a born essayist, 
and when we read the poems, he seems a born poet — Nev> 
Torh Evangelist. 



One volume, i2mo., 188 pages. Cloth, dark red polished 
top, uncut edges. Price $1.00. For sale by the trade, of 
mailed on receipt of price by the publishers^ Charles H. 
Kerr & Co., 175 Dearborn street, Chicago. 



MANUAL TRAINING IN EDUCATION. 

By JAMES VILA BLAKE. 

With a Preface by Prof. C. M. Woodward, Directop 
of the Manual Training School of St. Louis. 



OPINIONS: 



"The tendency of thoughtful and observant people is well 
shown in this modest little volume of Mr. Blake's. He has 
here given the result of his own vigorous thinking on what he 
has observed in himself and in others. We were students to- 
gether at Harvard, and through widely different personal ex- 
periences we have reached the common ground of a belief in 
the universal value of manual training as an element in a truly 
liberal education." — Prof. C. M. Wood-ward. 

" Through the hand to the mind is the educational route 
now pursued with great success, and experience has shown it 
to be the natural method, and the one most truly uniting and 
developing the mental and manual powers, by making them 
mutually dependent. Mr. Blake presents the facts logically 
and carefully, with a view to gain new converts." — Book Chat. 

" The little volume, from its style and from the new point 
of view from which the author treats of manual training, de- 
serves to be widely read." — Omaha Republican. 

"Not only timely, but specially interesting." — Grand 
Rapids Eagle. 

"May be heartily recommended to all who are interested 
in the subject." — Wisconsin Journal of Education. 

" The author writes clearly and forcibly, and his views de- 
serve attention." — Worcester Daily Spy. 

" A convenient and well digested presentation of a vital 
topic." — Michigan Christian Advocate. 

Price in paper, 25 cents ; in cloth, 50 cents ; postage free. 

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THEODORE PARKER'S 

Lessons from the World of Matter and the World 
of Man. 

Selected from Notes of Unpublished Sermons, by Rufus 
Leighton. Cloth, 12mo, pp. 430 • reduced from $2.50 
to $1.25. 

" It has been a great comfort to me often to think that after I have 
passed away some of my best things might still be collected from my rough 
notes and your nice photograph of the winged words. The things I value 
most are not always such as get printed." — Tkeodore Parker to Rufits 
Leighton. 

"This volume is by all odds the best one-volume introduction to the 
great preacher. Kindling passages caught on the wing by the stenographic 
pencil of an appreciative listener, they give the glow and the fire of one 
who dispensed both light and heat in days that were dark and chilly. The 
reduced price ought to give this perennial book a fresh lease on life and a 
new field. * * * The Dook contains one of the best portraits of Theodore 
Parker extant, good enough to be cut out and framed if the owner is will- 
ing to mutilate the book." — Unity. 

This volume, edited by Mr. Rufus Leighton, was first brought before 
the public in iS6$. It ran through several editions, but for a number of 
years has not been regularly upon the market. We have just concluded an 
arrangement with Mr. Leighton by which we shall have the exclusive 
sale of the book. T.ie price, originally $2.50, we have 

REDUCED TO $1.23. 

The book contains 430 large duodecimo pages, and is substantially bound 
in cloth. The general divisions of subjects are as follows: The Material 
World and Man's Relation Thereto, the Nature of Man, Traits and Illus • 
trations of Human Character and Conduct, Phases of Domestic Life, Edu- 
cation, Human Institutions and National Life, the Power and Endurance 
of What Is Noblest in Man, Human Progress, Jesus of Nazareth, Man in 
His Religious Aspect. Each of these divisions is subdivided into from 
seven to forty sections; for example, the chapter on Human Progress is 
subdivided as follows: Man to Make His Own Paradise, the False Idea of 
Man a Hindrance to His Progress, Man's Progress not by Miracle but by 
the Use of Natural Forces, Power of the Human Will Over Circumstances, 
the Necessity for an Ideal, Death a Blessing to Man, the Founders of New 
England— the True Way to Honor Them, the Prophecy of the Past to the 
Future, the Next Half Century. 

The book is copyrighted, and no portion of it is accessible in any other 
form, except a single section which has been used in th-i recent volume 
published by the American Unitarian Association. 

*** The book is for sale in Boston at Roberts Brothers' Book Store, and 
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THE LEGEND OF HAMLET. 



The Legend of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, as found in the 
works of Saxo Grammaticus and other writers of the 
twelfth century. By George P. Hansen, late U. S. Con- 
sul at Elsinore, Denmark. Edited by Charlie B. Simons. 
Square i8mo , 57 pages. Paper, 25 cents; Cloth, 50 cents. 



"Invaluable to the Shakespearean student." — University 
Magazine. 

" A very interesting tale of the mythical origin of the 
melancholy Dane." — Saturday Evening Herald. 

" A careful reading of this work would make the play 
even more fascinating." — The Delphic. 

"Mr Hansen was in a position to write a valuable 
treatise, and he did not lose his opportunity." — Cambridge 
Tribune. 

"This small volume must not be judged by its size. In 
a vivid and charming way it gives us the legend of Hamlet 
— a legend which suggested Shakespeare's immortal tragedy. 
* * * * It is a weird, strange story, one thaj 

must interest every reader " — Interior. 

" It gives many facts not within the reach of ordinary 
readers in any cheap form." — Frof. William J. Holfe, in The 
Literary World.. 



For sale by the trade, or mailed on receipt of price b-- 
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THE CABIN IN THE CLEARING 

AND OTHER POEMS. 



By Benjamin S. Parker. 



"Here is something new. Here is a voice that ascends from the 
pioneer's clearing in the forest and chants not the weak and 
effeminate rhymes of the singer in the gilded world, to whom life is 
a mere matter of conventionalities, but the strong, earnest notes of 
one who has really seen and felt nature, and to whom living is 
still a matter of old-fashioned responsibility. He sings like a 
wood bird, because he has something to sing." — Cincinnati Times 
Star. 

The sternest of critics, under the spell of this greenwood 
music, would forget to frown, for here is the very scent of clover 
and elder-bloom, the whistle of the quail, the merry chatter of wren 
and chipmonk, the ripple of forest streams and dance of chequered 
sun-beams. . . . Here is that "local color for which our Eng- 
lish writers have so often clamored, and the genuine " artless art 
that tarries long." — Alice Williams Brotherton, in Unity. 

A large volume ot 310 pages, printed on laid paper and sub- 
stantially bound. Price, in cloth, $1.50; in full Russia leather with 
red edges, $2.00. Mailed to any address on receipt ofprice. 



CHARLES H. KERR & CO., Publishers, 
175 Dearborn Street, Chicago. 



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Treatment Date: Oct. 2009 

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